


A Series of Glimpses (FFXIV Write 2020)

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: FFxivWrite, FFxivWrite2020, Gen, M/M, Other, tag updates as i post since idk what i'll be writing, tons of oneshot/drabbles go here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 43,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: Collection of prompt entries for #FFXIVWrite2020Will be updated once a day with each day's prompt! Character and ship tags will be updated accordingly as well.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Loghrif/Mitron (Final Fantasy XIV), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Lahabrea, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. 1. crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crux [ kruhks ]  
> noun  
> >a vital, basic, decisive, or pivotal point.

**Day 1: CRUX**

Everything happened so fast, it was near impossible for Bran to follow. Near impossible for him to understand.

Nanamo-- _Nanamo_.

It didn’t feel real. Didn’t feel like it could possibly be happening. Didn’t feel-- didn’t-- it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. 

How long had he known her? He remembered meeting her five years ago. Remembered everything he’d done for her. The days leading up to Carteneau. Everything after he’d returned. He’d been with the Immortal Flames since their inception. Fought beside the Sultansworn. He’d been born in La Noscea, raised there, but Ul’dah had become his home.

And that home was shattered, as he stared down helplessly at her still form. How was he supposed to protect her from this?! How was he supposed to protect _anyone_ from something like this?! What was he supposed to do against an enemy he couldn’t fight?!

He was still thinking those thoughts when the doors to the room crashed open, and he quickly learned -- a lesson he should have learned long ago, yet still he had hoped, hoped beyond hope itself, that this time would be different -- that things could always get worse. Things could always get worse, and...they did.

They did, in a flurry of blue uniforms, and he could hardly react before he was facefirst on the floor staring up at strangers, at the Alliance leaders, at the others. He could hardly hear the words shouted back and forth, eyes trained on the vial pulled from his pocket, the empty vial, eyes trained on Laurentius, on Ilberd, on Teledji-- no, no, no no no no _no no_.

How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so blind? He should have known, he should have known. 

It’s his fault-- that thought sinks into his chest and lodges there like a thorn in his heart. It’s his fault. He didn’t see, he didn’t realize, he walked right into this entire trap blindly with a smile, he trusted them, he trusted _all_ of them, and this is what he’d gotten. What they’d all gotten. It’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault.

Wilred-- oh gods, Wilred. _Wilred_ is his fault, too. If it weren’t for him, the other boy wouldn’t have been here. Wouldn’t have tried to be a hero. Wouldn’t have _died_.

He might have been crying, he couldn’t tell, but-- but a bellow of rage snaps his thoughts free of the morass of despair and he can only watch as Raubahn charges like the bull he is and there’s blood, and -- _good_ , he can only think desperately, a foreign sort of viciousness bubbling in his chest at it, _good_ \-- Teledji is gone, but then-- but then there was another spout of blood, and this time he screamed as well, because a thousand memories of Raubahn rushed through his mind as all he could do was stare at the blood pooling around his arm, his _arm_ \--

Nothing else that happened stuck in his head, then, only someone pulling him up to his feet as they ran, and they ran, and so many Brass Blades, so many blue coated Braves...one of them (he couldn’t tell which) tried to grab Minfilia’s arm, drag her away (witch, they called her, _witch_ like someone who just wanted to help was evil somehow, like her kindness and compassion was fake, like no one could be so good in truth) and he lashed out, shouting as he moved, the still-healing wounds from the battle with Vishap protesting loudly--- and he got her away, but a scimitar came up roughly and caught him across the face, slicing it open from right temple to left cheek. 

He thought Minfilia cried out, thought maybe Y’shtola tried to heal him, but he brushed both off, still holding her by the arm as he took off again. A wound didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. None of this mattered, it couldn’t anymore, he couldn’t let it. If he let it matter-- if he let it matter he’d break down on the spot, he knew it. Everything, everything felt like it had been building to this, this crystallized moment. Moenbryda, G’raha, Wilred-- even the massacre at the Sands, even before that when he returned only to find that no one remembered him and his parents had died in the Calamity he hadn’t been able to prevent. Brick by painful brick it was built, this tower in his chest, built to be broken, and now came the crippling blow, and if he let it matter that tower would topple and he would be-- he didn’t know. 

All that mattered now was getting everyone out safely. When everyone was safe, then he-- then he could relax. Then he could repair this tower, this trembling monument of guilt and pain. Because he couldn’t just let it fall, could he? He could never. Never, never let it fall, never let himself feel those things. Because he was needed. He was needed, he was needed, they needed him, he was their hero. He was their hero and he was needed, so none of this could ever touch him. 

And then--- and _then_ \---

First it was Yda and Papalymo. He turned with Minfilia to cry out, to reach for them, to grab at their arms and beg them to come along, come with them, don’t stay, don’t do it-- but Thancred grabbed his arm and tugged him along, face set and eyes hard to hide how his hands trembled in outrage and self-recrimination even as he called for Minfilia to come, too. He could hear behind them as they ran, then, shouts and echoing noises of battle, and perhaps some kind of explosion, but he couldn’t turn back. He couldn’t turn back.

And then the tunnel, and then more came, and this time it was Thancred and Y’shtola who remained. It was near impossible to leave them this time, and he clung to the bard’s hand tight, too tight, eyes wide and terrified-- he had known him for so long, since the very moment he had first arrived in Ul’dah, had seen him through so much, had saved him, had-- had-- he couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t, how could he---?

But Thancred smiled, and tugged his hand free. Pushed him at Minfilia with a request -- a _final_ request, part of him thought, a thought that made him sick -- to protect her, see her to safety. And he couldn’t say no, how could he say no to him? So he grabbed Minfilia’s hand, then, meeting her tearful blue eyes with his grey, and-- and they ran. They ran, even as they heard the tunnel collapse behind them, sending rubble down around their heads that cut a thin line through his left temple, and even as beside him Minfilia-- _Ascilia_ cried out for her brother, her family, and he couldn’t cry with her because he _couldn’t_. He _couldn’t_. He had to get her out. He had to get her out. He had to. He had to.

And he didn’t hear it -- why didn’t he hear it, why didn’t he hear Her, why didn’t She speak to him, what did he do wrong, why had She taken her blessing and why was She silent in his ears now, when all he’d ever done was fight for Her? -- but she did. But Minfilia did, and-- and-- no, no, no, he insisted. No. Not her too, not her. But she was unmoved. Of course she was. How could she not be, how could she not have so much faith in him, how could she not send him on with those words ringing in his ears?

_You are the Warrior of Light. You are hope-- for the Scions, and for all the realm. As long as your flame continues to burn, the light of the dawn may ever be relit!_

Hope? He was _hope?_ No. No, how could he ever be? How could he be, he thought, as he watched her vanish into the blackness of the tunnel, as he had no choice but to turn away.

What hero let those who loved him all to a man die? What Warrior of Light failed to protect everyone he held dear, failed to protect those who needed him? What _hope_ led to this, to a boy alone, bloody and fleeing from a city he had called home, from the bodies of all he cared about, from the blame of a crime he would never have committed?

No. No, he was none of those things, he knew that now.

All of his childhood, all of his faerie tales-- none of them could prepare him for this. In the stories things always worked out, in the stories they always came back. No one stayed dead save those who deserved it. The hero was always right, and things like this never happened. Never happened. Villains were easily spotted, and easily defeated. They were faerie tales. He had wanted to be in one, wanted to be a hero, wanted to be just like them--

But he was wrong. He was wrong. Faerie tales were all pretty lies, all fantasy. He was no hero. He could never be, because heroes just didn’t exist. The world ate them all up. The world destroyed them. They could do everything right, and they would still fail, fail, and fail again, and no one would care. Those that did would be gone, and they would be left with a cruel, selfish place who used them and threw them away when their purpose was ended.

And so the tower built in his heart collapsed all around him, whether he wanted it to or not. He didn’t register finding Alphinaud, not really, didn’t register escaping with Cid. Didn’t register getting to Dragonhead, or the warm mug of cocoa pressed into his hands with a gentle smile and kind words. Didn’t register Tataru’s tears or Yugiri’s face.

He had failed. He had _failed_. Failed so deeply, so thoroughly, that he-- him, a hero? Him, a Warrior of Light? He couldn’t even be hope for _himself_ , let alone a realm. He couldn’t be anything, not anymore. Useless, useless, _useless_. Naive and stupid and _useless_.

What else was there to do, then, but break apart?


	2. 2. sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sway [ swey ]  
> verb (used with object)  
> -to cause (the mind, emotions, etc., or a person) to incline or turn in a specified way; influence.  
> -to cause to swerve, as from a purpose or a course of action:

**DAY 2: SWAY**

“No.”

“But you haven’t even let me finish!” 

“I don’t need to,” Azem said, though he stopped walking towards the lifts-- he remained turned away from his companion, though, refusing to turn and look at him. “I have heard enough. And my answer is still no.”

Emet-Selch took the advantage, hurrying to catch up and slipping around so that he stood face to face with the other man, eyes behind crimson mask wide and pleading. “The world is ending, Azem-- Apollo, we need to do something. We must--”

“We do!” Azem burst out, his voice rising. It wasn’t rare for the Traveler to be so passionate about his thoughts, but in this moment it seemed to shatter a quiet that had only recently fallen, an almost mournful, anxious silence. “I know we do! What do you think I’ve been doing, Hades, what do you think-- I know something must be done. I _know_ that, as well as all of us. But not this. _Not this_.”

Emet-Selch swallowed. “It would be willing, on all counts. You know this. All of us in Amaurot only want to be saved, for our world to be safe. We would all but gladly...”

“I know that,” Azem repeated. “And that’s why it falls to us to say _no_.” 

He reached out and grabbed the other convocant’s hand, dragging him to the window of the capitol that sat beside the lifts so they could look out upon their city. It was still lit with the glow of banking fires, buildings tumbled to their foundations, streets cracked, and still there were monsters flickering about, the beasts of their terminus. Not so many, as people died and the source of their spawnings lessened, but they were still there. “Look, Hades,” he said, insistently. “Look at this. What’s become of our home. The whole world, the whole _star,_ is like this.”

“I can see it all too clearly, Apollo,” Emet-Selch rasped, turning away. “You know that I can.” With his sight, he saw better than most, the ruptured and bleeding Underworld, overripe and fit to burst with too many of their sunbright souls, enough that they were hemorrhaging, losing lives into the sea, souls gone out of the cycle and past hope of saving. 

“Then,” Azem said patiently, still holding his hand. “Why would we solve this problem by losing yet more lives? To give up half our number-- how many of us will be left by the end of this, Hades? Will we save an empty world, devoid of our people? Who will be left to guide, to protect, if we let them all give their lives for this? We can’t let that happen. It is our duty and ours alone.”

“Apollo…” Emet-Selch murmured, but then turned to take his other, holding both hands tight in his. “Please,” he said. “I know-- I understand your qualms. I do. Truly. It pains me as well, the idea that we will be giving up so many of our people into this, the idea that so many souls will be lost to us. But there is no other way. This is all we have left, our only hope.”

Azem frowned. “There must be another way,” he said stubbornly. “There _must_ be.”

“There is not!” Emet-Selch snapped at last, his already thin patience snapping. “You have not _been_ here, Azem! We have argued for days upon days, suggesting and discarding countless ideas and concepts! This is the best and only solution, no matter how painful it is!”

“I have not been here because I have been trying to solve this problem myself!” Azem snapped back, pulling his hands away. “Please, Hades, please let me present my own findings to the Convocation! I know we can find a better way, I know I have a better way. If we can find the Sound, we can destroy it, and we can rebuild from there! All of us, together! We don’t need to sacrifice so many people, we can save our world with our own hands!”

“This _is_ saving the world with our own hands!” Emet-Selch protested. “Lahabrea’s initial concepts are sound, he’s shown them to us, and--”

“Lahabrea is _grieving,_ Hades!” Azem responded. “When was the last time he’s slept? Eaten? Stopped his work for even a moment? I trust him, I do, but he is a father mourning a child, and can any of us say that his concepts are not colored by that loss?”

Emet-Selch ran his hand down his face. “We have to trust him, as we always do,” he said. “How can we move forward if we do not rely upon each other? Trust each other and carry ourselves forward together?” He leaned against the window heavily. “Have you spoken to your brother since you returned, or did I catch you first?”

“No,” Azem said tiredly. “I tried to speak to Artemis, but he-- but the _Emissary_ is too busy.” He sighed. “I must...I need to. Perhaps he will settle this.” He slipped a hand under his hood, running a hand through short red hair. “Perhaps he will see sense…”

“Perhaps _you_ will see sense,” Emet-Selch muttered, only to wince as Azem looked at him sharply. “I mean it,” he said louder, firmer. “Azem, we cannot-- we _must_ do this. Your hunt for the Sound will take too long. By the time you find it, we will all be gone-- if you ever _do_. Please. Stay. Help us ready ourselves for the summoning. We need you, my dearest. We need you here. Please.”

There was silence for a long moment, and in that silence Emet-Selch reached out for him, trying to cup his cheek gently, but Azem pulled away, taking a step back.

“No,” he repeated. “I am sorry, Hades. My dearest Hades. But I _cannot_ allow this. I cannot stand for this. If I--” He stopped, shaking his head. “If I must, I will step down from my seat. But I _will_ find the Sound, and I _will_ deal with it. So that there will be no more death, no more lives lost.” He smiled sadly. “What I wouldn’t give for you to come with me, Hades, one last time. Together we could save everyone. You and I, and any others we could convince...we could _do_ this.”

“...I’m sorry, Apollo.” Emet-Selch murmured, looking away. “But I cannot bear this any longer than I must. Seeing this...seeing all this...I cannot. If there is a way, if our way can succeed, I must take the chance. I must, for if I do not…” A tear slipped free from his mask, dripping down his face. “If I do not---” He shook his head. “If you must go, then go, my love. And know that my heart goes with you, now and forever, as do my prayers for your success. But I must-- I must stay. I am needed here.”

“I will carry your heart beside mine, then, Hades,” Azem said quietly. “Now and for always, until the sun and stars fall from the heavens-- but they will not, for I will not let them.” He stepped forward to press a brief kiss to his lips, lingering a moment before moving away again. “I will not let them fall, my dearest of friends. This I swear.” He managed a smile. “Tell my brother I love him, won’t you? Tell him I love him, and that I will make certain he, and everyone else, see a new day, in a world that is no longer dying.”

“I will, Apollo. My dearest.” Emet-Selch murmured, and he stood silent and watched as Azem turned away, disappearing into a lift. The doors closed behind him, and it felt...final. Too final. But-- he would believe him. He would fight, and so would Azem, in their different ways; they could not sway the other to their side, no, but...perhaps both of them could still fight. And maybe they could save the world together, from their separate paths. 

And then he, and Azem, and Elidibus, and the others, could all stand beneath that sky Azem promised.


	3. 3. muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> muster [ muhs-ter ]  
>  verb (used with object)  
> >to assemble (troops, a ship's crew, etc.), as for battle, display, inspection, orders, or discharge.  
> >to gather, summon, rouse (often followed by up).

**DAY 3: MUSTER**

The duties of Azem the Traveler were, on the surface, simple. To travel across the star, meeting others -- others of myriad natures, cultures, personalities and traditions -- and learning their ways, bringing that knowledge back to Amaurot to further that of their own people. And along their way, along their winding, wandering path...they helped people. Anyone in need, for any reason at all. They did not need a reason to help people, really; they just did. Perhaps it had not been an official part of their duty, but they did so anyway. 

Today was no different.

It was a day, Azem mused, picking his way up the gentle slopes of the mountains beside the sleepy little village he had stopped in two days earlier, that made his job seem not quite so simple. He was dressed for the hike, having left his robes and mask aside whilst traveling-- instead, he wore sturdy dark pants and a tunic, leaving his face and hair exposed to the faint autumn breeze. Those back home would be all aflutter, he knew, and he also knew he tended to forget to don mask and robe when he returned-- driving several people mad, but...how was he supposed to remember such a silly thing? He understood it, had grown up with it, respected and appreciated it, but...well. The seat of Azem was well known to be eccentric, and as he learned of more and more outside his city, he knew why. To learn about all others was to have a larger picture of the world, and therefore was to look upon your own city with different eyes.

But idle musing of this nature was, for the moment, only to pass the time-- his trek was not a difficult one, but it was fairly tedious. But only the trek, for what awaited him at the top was certainly something far more exciting than a boring climb up a mountain. 

He had arrived here two days earlier, in the town at the base, only for them to recognize his mask and beg him for aid-- for the past three or four cycles of the moon, a creature had made its home in the mountains above them, and had been regularly feasting upon their herd animals, leaving not even bones behind. It was only a matter of time, they feared, before the beast came after the children. So they had pled to Azem to help them. And of course, of course he agreed.

It was strange-- in Amaurot, they would never dream of this sort of thing happening. In Amaurot, everything was perfectly safe and peaceful. There would be no worry of hunting or being hunted, of large beasts or losing their sustenance. Many people outside the city did not use their creation magics for everything, instead relying on bred animals for things such as food, or clothing. It was fascinating. There were so many things no one in Amaurot would consider, but out here? Out here they had to, whether by necessity or desire. And so, for such myriad problems, myriad ideas and questions...it was to him to find solutions.

Eventually, he arrived at the peak-- and where the creature had made its home was eminently obvious. A cavern yawned open, and he could see the slivers of bone and old blood from its meals littering the entrance. And from within, a growl emanated, a flash of light reflecting off reptilian eyes.

“Ah, there you are,” Azem said brightly, tapping the toe of his boot against the ground. “Good. I was hoping I didn’t have to go far to find you, my friend. I’m afraid you’ve outstayed your welcome, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.” He tilted his head, short red hair fluffed wildly by the wind. “I’ll ask nicely once.” He warned. “And then we’ll do this the hard way. I never _like_ the hard way, really.”

The creature did not answer at first, but as Azem took another step closer, it uncoiled itself from the cavern and roared-- and Azem blinked. “Oh,” he said, bemused. “You are much larger than I thought you were.” It was; a reptilian beast that towered several stories high, scales a vivid green and head triangular and crested, a forked tongue flicking from between a mouth filled with too many teeth, tail whipping around angrily as its clawed limbs flexed, ready to go on the attack. It roared once more, some sort of elemental breath flickering deep in its throat, and Azem sighed.

“....well,” he admitted. “Perhaps I lied. I do like the hard way...occasionally. It can be fun, and you, my scaled intruder, may yet provide me a little fun.” He lifted his hands, and in them Created his arms-- a shining shield and sword, forged of sunbright aether. Perhaps it was crass of him to fight in such a way, rather than wielding his prodigious magicks -- all Convocants must be talented mages, after all -- but...he had found he enjoyed it. It felt more... _tangible_ that way, the act of protecting. To strike out and be struck, to feel the vibration of a blow hitting one’s shield and to feel the weight of taking a life. To kill was a great and terrible action, no matter the reason or cause, and to do so with a sword in hand felt...it felt more like a weight to carry, rather than something separated by the distance of a spell. Something more personal. And as Azem, as a convocant, he felt he had the duty to carry that weight of responsibility.

He blinked up again at the creature, and sighed. “....though,” he told the thing casually, as if he were discussing the weather. “I doubt I could fight one such as you on my own. So if you’ll excuse me--”

He lifted his sword, letting it shine brighter with aether and tracing a circle upon the ground around him before holding it to his face with its point facing the sky-- and _Called_. It was his own magic, his own spell, the spell of the seat of Azem; to call the stars to his side, call the Convocation to his aid. He didn’t intend to call anyone specific-- just called, loud and clear and vibrant, shaking the aether around him, and waited.

It didn’t take long-- the first figure swirled into existence beside him, tucking his hood back to reveal white hair above his crimson mask and a fond smile below it. “Trouble again, dear Azem?” Emet-Selch asked, eyes alight behind the porcelain concealing his face. “My, what good timing. You’ve saved me from quite a bit of paperwork.” 

“Good timing? _Ha!”_ A voice from his other side echoed irritably, and Azem laughed, turning to face a clearly unhappy Lahabrea, mouth turned down into a frown to match his fanged mask. “I was in the middle of a _lecture_ , you know. Must you really?”

“Now, now, Lahabrea,” Emet-Selch scolded gently, lips curved up fondly. “Convocation duties come first before those of our other positions. You can’t exactly decline Azem’s call.”

“No, because the man will shout down the stars in my ear ‘til I go deaf or answer simply to _throttle_ _him into silence_ ,” the Speaker grumbled, but his frown faded to a smile, and he pushed blond hair behind his ear. “But very well. It seems you have at least presented me with an interesting problem to solve. Or...a _challenging_ one, if nothing else.”

“Challenging?” The third new voice echoed, the man’s own red hair peeking out from his hood as he straightened his robes. “Lahabrea, it’s simply a rather irritable overgrown lizard! Come now, if you’re so intent on finishing your tedious lecture, we’ll be done with this in no time at all.”

“Hush up, Nabriales,” Lahabrea muttered, wryly amused. “You simply hold a grudge because _you_ had to sit through my lectures before your appointment, and I did not take kindly to your slacking off.”

“I wasn’t slacking!” Nabriales protested with a pout and a huff. “I was _learning_.”

“You were _gossiping_ ,” Emet-Selch interjected. “We all know that. But it’s of no moment, you two, it’s clear why Azem has need of us.” His hands flickered with aether, and he smiled. “Shall we get on with it?” 

Nabriales grinned wide, moving to stand with the others, his own hands glowing with bright magic. “We shall indeed! Try not to stand where it spits this time, Speaker?”

“I will, so long as _you_ remember not to run towards us if it decides to target you!” Lahabrea snapped, though it was with an amiable edge to the teasing.

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes, laughter in his voice. “Both of you, _really_. Just-- don’t get hit at _all,_ mm? You’ll save me a fair bit of trouble and _yourselves_ a few less scrapes I have to mend.”

“Children!” Azem said, laughing. “We’ll all be careful, how about that? I apologize for interrupting your lecture, Lahabrea, but with the four of us this shan’t take long!”

“Says the man who refuses to dodge,” Emet-Selch muttered admonishingly, but only smiled when his lover shot him an affronted look. “I meant what I said,” he said lightly. “Now, go on. We are as always right behind you, Azem.”

“I know, my friends,” Azem responded, and then turned to face the creature once again. “Be ready, it comes!”

The seat of Azem was that of a wanderer, a traveler, never remaining long in one place and never lingering overlong among any he met, but...at the same time, he knew: no matter how far his journey took him, he would always have friends to call upon for aid. For that was his magic, his power-- the bonds of his companions he forged with the strength and compassion within his sun-bright soul.


	4. 4. clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clinch [ klinch ]  
> verb (used with object)  
> >to settle (a matter) decisively:

**DAY 4: CLINCH**

Emet-Selch groaned quietly, letting his head drop to the table. The Convocation’s meeting room was loud today -- their meeting had proceeded apace, as usual, discussing each matter and looking at each member’s opinion and then either tabling it for later or settling upon a solution or decision, but...then came this last topic. Then came this last topic, and it had been going on for hours, this debate, without signs of ceasing! On, and on, and on…

“This,” he muttered into the surface his head rested upon. “ _This_ is why we need settle the matter of accepting a new Elidibus into the position with haste.”

“We’ve discussed that matter already, Emet-Selch,” Halmarut said evenly, hands folded sternly in front of him. “It will be brought into a separate meeting, once we fully review every candidate. That is not what this debate is about.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Emet-Selch shot back. “But we have been at this for ages. Can we not settle upon a decision already?!”

“If my fellows would cease being so obstinate,” Lahabrea grumbled, “we would have settled this _hours_ ago.”

“ _You_ are the one being obstinate, Lahabrea,” Igeyorhm pointed out primly, her lips twitching. “But I see your point. I do agree with your position, in this at least. Perhaps if you would lessen the amount of paperwork you bring, it would be read, and more people would see the wisdom in it?”

The Speaker muttered something under his breath, embarrassed, but huffed and ruffled the stack of parchments and concept matrices in front of him. “Precisely,” he said, glaring around the table at those who had been arguing with him. “If you would have the patience to read my proposal…”

“Not all of us have the _time_ , you know,” Nabriales pointed out. “My duties as messenger keep me running to and fro, I’ve not the luxury to read every lengthy dissertation you dump on my desk. And really, Halmarut is right, it seems like quite the risk.”

“Indeed it does,” Altima added, sharing a look with Emmerololth, who had already professed her agreement. “To use undocumented creatures and concepts in our research at the Akadaemia? Reckless to the extreme, Speaker.”

“They would no longer be undocumented once we study them!” Mitron piped up. “I for one am in absolute agreement. Why only keep our research to that which we ourselves create? I’m frankly astonished none of our predecessors have suggested the idea before.”

“They _have_ ,” Deudalaphon said primly, flipping the pages of the tome in front of her. “Several times. Each time the proposition was rejected.”

“And there you go,” Pashtarot said, waving a hand. “History says it all.”

“Yes, and history also shows each time an old resolution was _overturned_ ,” Fandaniel argued. “This would not be the first time. Come now, I think it a grand idea. Lahabrea has seldom erred before!”

Halmarut groaned. “And this is where we keep returning to. Our numbers are even, six for and six against. No one will cease their obstinance and accept they are wrong.”

“No, you mean _we_ will not,” Emet-Selch countered. “Because you believe yourselves to be in the right. As I said, _this_ is why we need to choose a new Emissary.”

The arguing continued in this fashion for some time, none were sure how long save Deudalaphon, who as Convocation timekeeper dutifully counted the minutes, til-- til the doors to the meeting room opened with a bank, less for dramatics than simply hurry, and all heads turned to look up at Azem, hood thrown back and black mask dangling from his hand, robes rumpled as if he’d conjured them as he’d run.

“Azem,” Emmerololth said sternly, lips thin. “Mask and hood. _Must_ we keep reminding you?”

The Traveller laughed. “Not even a hello, Emm? I only just got back moments ago, forgive my appearance-- I was told by someone’s assistant you’ve been holed up in here for most of the day, so I hurried over to see what the problem is.” He dutifully replaced his mask, though, finding his seat and sliding into it with his chin upon his hands, flagrantly refusing to flip his hood back up over tousled red hair.

“ _Hood_ ,” Altima said pointedly.

“I was just in a _desert_ ,” Azem protested. “It was _hot_. I’m cooling off, I’ll put it back on when I’m not sweating like a--” He stopped, though, wincing at the sharp look Halmarut gave him and nodding, reaching over casually to tug the stack of Lahabrea’s paperwork to him. “What’s all this, then, Lahabrea, is this what you’ve been arguing about?”

“Yes,” the Speaker said, brightening visibly and leaning over to the other convocant to point out his ideas. “You see? I thought it a perfectly reasonable suggestion, but I’m being fought against at all turns.”

“Hm,” Azem hummed to himself, smile widening into a grin as he perused the papers. “Well! Lahabrea, I never imagined _you_ to suggest this! You never struck me as so daring. But what an idea. I like it.”

“You _would_ ,” Altima groused. “The risks inherent in picking up unknown concepts from outside our walls is too great, Azem, it--”

“It is something I already _do_ ,” the Traveller pointed out dryly. “I really am surprised no one has ever agreed to such an idea before. Perhaps it was outvoted before any previous Azem could have his say? Hm, no matter, ‘tis my turn to put a few words in.” He stood, tugging his hood up if just to seem more reasonable, and cleared his throat to begin.

“As Traveller, my duties carry me far beyond the walls of Amaurot more often than not-- and out there I do indeed see myriad concepts and creatures and ideas far removed from those here within our walls, and many of them things no Amaurotine would be able to conceive of-- not for lack of skill or talent, mind, simply due to lack of wider experiences. I already bring reports of my own experiences to the convocation, but what we do share with our people is scant, chosen through our own judgement and that of the Bureau of the Architect. I truly believe it would do our city good to introduce more of what I bring back from abroad, and we could in turn share our own discoveries with those outside our city.” 

He looked at Lahabrea, who was fighting to keep a smug look off his face. “And with our esteemed Speaker, one of the most brilliant to ever sit the post,” he added, “I think it would do us all far more good than otherwise to allow him and the Akadaemia access to more of what I bring back, and in turn allow me to bring more of what I encounter back.”

“But,” Halmarut said patiently, bringing up the arguments with which he’d been protesting the past bells. “Who are we to decide what foreign concepts are safe and are not? Who are we to know what could cause untold trouble for our city? No, that is why we deny most of what you bring to us further study or entry, Azem. We cannot judge how it will be used, or how it is used beyond what your limited experience says, so better to simply put it aside.”

“You’re right,” Azem agreed, amused. “Absolutely. We can’t judge how the knowledge I bring has been used, or will be used. But that is why we exist, isn’t it? To help guide our people into the right paths. No one can know _everything_ , Halmarut. We must rely on our own better judgement.” He smiled. “How about this: if I find something I feel worth bringing home with me, I will call _you_ , Halmarut, and those of you who have been arguing against this, and together we will figure out what to do with it. That way you can experience the concept firsthand, where it naturally exists, and decide with that knowledge in mind.” He paused. “Besides, it would do you good to get out a bit more, you know. Imagine all the plants you’ve yet to see!”

The older convocant sputtered, flushing, and tried to clear his throat. “Y-Yes, well.” He said after a moment. “I suppose you have a fair point with _that_ …” 

“I told you!” Mitron crowed, grinning. “Coming up with our own concepts and studying what we know of our fields from our own experiences is one thing, but to look upon the wonders of the wider world...there are so many creatures, so many plants, we’ve yet to discover, and I say if Azem is allowed to bring back more of what he finds and the Akadaemia is allowed freer access to it, then I for one would be happy to let my students study it all!”

“There are dangers inherent in it, yes,” Emet-Selch allowed, speaking for the first time in enough time that it had seemed he’d dozed off before Azem’s arrival. “But there are in any act of creation. It is our duty as the stewards of this star to know _our star_ , not simply our place upon it, is it not? By deeming it too much a risk to being more than the barest minimum into our studies and our city, our predecessors did indeed establish a precedent of caution bordering on fear that may yet hinder us, in the end.”

Fandaniel grinned. “I keep saying that.” He said cheerily. “We must needs set a _new_ precedent for our own future generations, and why not do so by being a bit more daring?”

Those who had argued against the point exchanged looks, and finally Halmarut sighed tiredly. “Fine,” he said. “Terms accepted. One of the six of us will be called when you find something you believe worth sharing, and we will make a preliminary decision based upon what we see of it in its natural environment before you return it to the convocation for further discussion.” A sigh, and he continued reluctantly. “And in turn, we will...be more open to passing said concepts and creatures into the facilities at Anyder for study or storage.”

“Yes!” Azem said happily, leaning over to shamelessly embrace Lahabrea, who went pink and coughed, patting at the other man’s arm. “There we go! See, it isn’t so hard to agree on things!” He turned and grinned at the others. “Now,” he said. “We really must deal with the question of a new Elidibus, so you don’t need me crashing in here to solve all _your_ problems, too. That part isn't my job.”

Emet-Selch stifled a snort from the sharp gaze of Altima, who glared at all three of those involved in the shenanigans -- and Nabriales and Fandaniel, who were both giggling, their own differing sides of the debate forgotten -- and smiled. “I keep saying that, dear Azem,” he said, amused. “Stay long enough to help us in a few days, when we deal with that? We might need you yet again.”

“Oh, very well, dear Emet-Selch,” he said in turn, letting go of Lahabrea to move over and lean on him. “I will. But in the meantime...it truly _is_ good to be home. I’ve missed you lot. Arguments and all.” 

He had-- arguments or not, winning them or not-- it was home. And the excitement and value of his adventures aside...it was always, always, just as good to return home from them.


	5. 5. matter of fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matter of fact  
> noun  
> >something of a factual nature, as an actual occurrence.  
> adjective  
> >unemotional and practical.  
> >concerned only with factual content rather than style or expression.

**DAY 5: MATTER OF FACT**

“Well, why don’t you go _ask_ him?”

“Are you mad?!” The student croaked, face flushed beneath white mask. “He’ll turn me into a frog for disturbing his studies!”

His friend grinned, crimson hair sticking up like a little wildfire now that he’d tucked his hood down. “Only for a few minutes, to teach you a lesson. Come on, now, Hades, he’s a professor. He’s meant to answer questions!”

“Just because he’s meant to doesn’t mean he will!” Hades whined, clutching his books to his chest. “Hythlodaeus, _please!”_

“He’s right, you know,” said the young man on his other side. His own hood was thrown back as well to reveal his mop of hair, a shade or two less orange than Hythlodaeus’ and a bit longver, but just as red-- many mistook them for siblings, but they were not; while Hythlodaeus had a twin brother, it was not Apollo, but a boy named Hermes who was just as much trouble as his twin. Apollo was, for the moment, an only child. But the two were so alike in face, save the color of their eyes -- Hythlodaeus had a dark green, while Apollo’s were bright gold -- that it was easy to make the error. It was how, in fact, they had become friends.

And then they’d dragged Hades into their circle-- which at the time, and even now, had seemed unlikely indeed. The white-haired boy was entirely unlike the other two, quiet and soft-spoken and serious, with a short fuse of frustration and little patience for mad antics. He did have a bit of a mischievous streak, but it was rare, and tended to manifest more in a laziness and habit of brushing off things he did not wish to do than anything else. But with the others, despite his complaints...they were the best of friends. Inseparable. 

Even if, like now, there were times when he wanted to strangle the both of them. “Apollo, no!” He protested, face still flushed. “He is _not!_ I can’t simply--!”

“You can!” Apollo insisted, eyes alight. “And you _should_. Certainly he isn’t our professor just yet, given our year of lesson, but he is the head researcher, and in charge of the department...if you’ve a question, and our own professor’s answers were inadequate, then…”

“Lahabrea will _eat me alive_ ,” Hades moaned. “Everyone knows he’s not to be disturbed! And aside from _that_ , that he’s utterly terrifying! Strict and no-nonsense, accepting no room for error...I have heard a rumor he is a construct the last Lahabrea constructed to take his place!”

“Oh, really?” Hythlodaeus asked, grinning. “I’ve heard that he lives alone and survives entirely on coffee, and refuses to even leave the Akadaemia aside from Convocation duties. Are we certain he is real? Hades, now you _must_ investigate this!”

“It is a simple question, I can go to the library and look it up!” Hades whined, but it was too late-- his friends were already shoving him down the hall, away from the classrooms and towards the Words of Lahabrea. “No! No, I don’t want to! It’s fine, stop it, both of you!”

“Report to us all the details when you return!” Apollo said, giving him one final push and waving brightly. “See you later, at our usual spot in the park!”

Hythlodaeus grinned. “Come by even if you’ve been turned into a frog or a cubus, you hear? We need to know this!”

“I swear to the _stars_ , you two--!” Hades wailed, but it was too late-- the two redheads were gone, skittering down the hall with a chorus of laughter, and he was alone. Alone, and now he turned to the hall that yawned further into the department of phantomology, filled with statues of beasts and creatures. It was no less well-lit than the rest of Anyder’s facilities, yet somehow it felt as if he walked into a cavern, with things within lurking ready to eat him. He swallowed thickly, contemplating simply leaving, but...by now he knew that his friends would never let him hear the end of it if he did. Ever. And besides that...he truly _did_ have questions in need of answers. 

So onward he walked, shoulders hunched and face buried halfway into his stack of tomes, trying to talk himself into being braver, yet he could not find the courage. Even as he found his way to the office door, marked with the man’s sigil of office...he found himself frozen in place, unable even to knock. _Oh stars oh stars oh stars oh stars_ \--

He had never met Lahabrea before; oh, they had all heard the rumors of this one, myriad and sundry, and all had heard from the students he taught -- only those in their final year of studies, which meant Hades and his friends had a few years yet to get there -- how terrifying he was as a professor. But he had never seen him. Few had, outside his students, for it was certainly true he avoided public appearances save those he was required to attend for his duties as Speaker. He had only been promoted in the past century, so there had been rather few that Hades had attended, and he had ended up falling asleep, for the most part. Long ceremonies were boring, really, and if a debate was not interesting he’d simply doze off. So this was truly, truly his first time in the presence of Lahabrea. 

But he swallowed, shifted his books to one arm, and knocked.

There was silence. He knocked again. Silence. He stood and waited for a few moments, then again. Silence. “....Lahabrea, sir...?” Still silence.

Fear ebbing to bewildered confusion, he took a breath and pushed at the door. It creaked open slightly, and bravely he slipped in. He could wait, if the man wasn’t here, right--? A noise made him freeze, though, and he turned, eyes wide, to see--- something entirely unexpected.

Lahabrea was at his desk, completely and utterly asleep. His mask was crooked, and his head was resting upon some papers it had haphazardly scattered when it had likely drooped to lie there, and his hood was down, revealing blond hair that looked like it needed a good brushing. In fact, he didn’t seem frightening at all. How could a professor passed out at his desk, looking like he had not slept for some weeks until now, be frightening?

A tiny smile settled on his lips, then, and he reached out to gently poke the Speaker’s arm. Poke. poke poke. At the fifth or so poke there was a snort and a grunt and eyes of pale gold flickered open, blinking blearily at Hades before he made a sort of embarrassed spluttering noise and sat up straight, readjusting his mask hastily and running a hand through his hair.

“I-- yes? Who are you?” He asked, though whatever dignity he was trying to maintain was lost entirely by this point.

“My name is Hades, sir, I’m a middle-years student at the Akadaemia,” came the reply, and Hades smiled faintly, a little unsteadily but far more confident than before. “Some things came up in my studies I was uncertain of, and when I asked my own phantomology professor, their responses were…” He trailed off.

Lahabrea smiled wryly. “You have Professor Basilides, yes?” He asked, and Hades nodded. “Then may I finish your sentence for you? His responses were inadequate and uninformed at best, and absolutely ridiculous and obscenely inaccurate.” He rolled his eyes. “Why my predecessor appointed him I cannot understand, but it is far too much work to apply to remove his position, unfortunately.” He paused. “You, however, are the first to come directly to _me_ with your questions when his lessons proved insufficient. Might I ask why?”

Hades blinked, caught off guard by the man’s attitude, and then shrugged. “My friends forced me,” he said bluntly. “But in truth I didn’t _entirely_ disagree. You are the expert, here, and if my own professor is proving…” His lips twitched. “... _incompetent_ , as you might say, then who better to go to than the man in charge of the entire department?”

“Hah!” Lahabrea snorted. “That’s a good enough description. You do speak your mind. And came to me despite, I am sure, the not insubstantial rumors that surround me. A rare thing, especially for the early and middle-years students.”

Hades shrugged, grateful for the chance to pretend his earlier fears had not happened. “I admit to half believing some of the rumors,” he said, though he was unable to keep the sheepishness out of his voice. “But it is hard _not_ to, when no one sees you. Even so, the risk was worth it.”

“I am _far_ too busy to be out and about so often,” Lahabrea muttered, huffing. “If no one sees me, it is because I am _working_. Nonetheless, we’re getting quite off topic-- your questions, then, Hades, let me hear them.”

Hades let out a quiet snort of laughter, but then nodded, finding a eat in the little-used chair on the other side of Lahabrea’s desk. “Very well, then,” he agreed, and leaned forward, resting his arms on his books. “My questions. Our lessons on phantomology had reached the discussion of the idea that arcane constructs and concepts such as those in this field cannot have souls, and cannot be created with souls. That I understand, but when I inquired as to any ways a soul could be placed within one accidentally or with intent, my questions were merely brushed off and the situation deemed unlikely at best. So now I suppose I come to you with the same inquiries.”

“A surprising line of questioning,” Lahabrea noted. “Is there any particular reason you wish to know? It is not something that normally comes up, you see.” He stared at Hades, sharp and pointed, and the younger man knew instinctively why he was doing so; it was _not_ a normal line of questioning, no, and he had been certain that was part of why he had been brushed off. And even though he felt as if the Speaker could burn his gaze through his soul, he swallowed, meeting those eyes stubbornly. After all, this was something he could speak on well.

“I have the gift of sight,” he said simply. “My tutor has stated it is stronger by far than almost anyone she has ever met in all her years. One of my friends is the only one she has ever seen that is stronger, in fact. So yes, I am aware of the potential ability to misuse the answers to my questions, but it is not for those reasons that I ask.” He set his shoulders, straightening from his somewhat anxious slump. “If a soul can be plucked free from the Underworld, or drift away from the sea enough that it can be placed or trapped within a concept, I wish to know. Because that is something I _would not_ stand by and witness, were there aught I could to to return them to where they need be. _That_ is why I ask, Lahabrea. Because I can see clearly, and to think of those souls suffering when they do not have to is something I could not bear or condone.”

Lahabrea blinked. “...I see,” he said after a moment, taken aback by the change in Hades’ demeanor, and then smiled, this one sincere and genuine. “A noble reasoning,” he said simply. “In that case, yes. There is precedent for accidents of that nature, and though it is possible for it to be deliberate, none would do so save out of ignorance of what they were doing.” He hummed to himself, grabbing a spare piece of paper and scribbling on it briefly. “When you’ve the time, go to the capital-- this should get you permission to enter and seek an appointment with our Emet-Selch. They would be glad to tell you more details on this and your other questions-- after all, you speak of nothing more than their main duties.”

“...is it?” Hades asked, taking the paper and tucking it safely into his robes. “I had known that a strong talent in the sight was required for appointment, but…” He smiled, then. “I think, then, that I will speak to them.” He did not necessarily want the position -- far too much actual work, really -- but perhaps to work _for_ them, at some point...or at least to have his questions answered, to finally speak to another with the sight besides Hythlodaeus and his tutor, whose own was weaker by far than theirs even if she was stronger than most in the city...it sounded nice, to be sure.

“Good,” Lahabrea said approvingly. “Seek your answers without shame or trepidation, Hades; that is the true mark of a scholar. Ask questions and do not take any other answers besides that which you seek, do not stop until you know what you wish to know.” He smiled, and extended a hand, which Hades took. “I almost look forward to when I have you in my class, Hades. You will be an interesting one to teach.”

Hades laughed. “I will remember that, Lahabrea! I hope you do not regret saying so, in time.” He bowed politely as he stood. “And I do look forward to learning from you,” he added. “It should prove interesting, as well.” that said, he moved to the door, taking one more glance back at the Speaker, taking in his appearance, and gazing for a long moment upon his soul, glimmering and bright and the color of the morning sky, blue and endless. “I would say I will see you then, but perhaps we will see each other sooner than that. So, then, until next time?”

“Until next time,” Lahabrea agreed, and Hades departed.

Would he tell the others what he had learned? That Lahabrea was not at all scary, and in fact rather fascinating, brilliant and honest to a fault and in fact rather entertaining as well? Hm. Perhaps, perhaps not. Maybe he’d keep it his own little secret.

But in any case...it had been nice. And it was true-- he _was_ looking forward to seeing him again. Such an honest, matter-of-fact conversation had been quite nice. 

He hoped there would be many more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the name Basilides comes from a Greek Stoic philosopher who denied the existence of incorporeal entities.
> 
> See here for reference.
> 
> I thought it was amusing, really.


	6. 6. free day 1 (discompose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discompose [ dis-kuhm-pohz ]  
> verb (used with object)  
> >to upset the order of; disarrange; disorder; unsettle:  
> >to disturb the composure of; agitate; perturb:

**DAY 6: FREE DAY (DISCOMPOSE)**

The first sign that anything at all was wrong was when Mitron screamed. 

It wasn’t a cry of fear, really, or anger-- just a rather prolonged startled wail. Several heads -- those of the Convocation that were still in the hall of offices, or just exiting the lifts -- turned towards him, and blinked. “What in all the heavens--” Halmarut managed, blinking rapidly behind his mask, and looked around once before staring back at Mitron where he was sprawled on the floor halfway in his office. “ _What_ are you shouting about?”

Emet-Selch blinked as well, his heart sinking slowly into his stomach as most of the others decided to ignore him and attempt to enter their offices, and first looked over at Nabriales for confirmation. The messenger’s eyes were concealed, but a grin was wide across his face, and that elicited a groan. “Oh no,” he managed. “You _didn’t_.”

“Oh, _I_ didn’t,” Nabriales hummed, delighted, watching the others and making no move to return to his office. “How could I have? I was with the rest of you.” That was true enough; they had all thirteen of them (as Azem was out on his travels again) just returned from a few days abroad, visiting a neighboring city for some policy discussion and trade agreements. So it really couldn’t have been him. But that just meant…

“You gave your brother permission to visit, didn’t you?” Emet-Selch asked tiredly, and the grin on the other man’s face only widened. “Oh, _stars_ …”

Nabriales, unfortunately, was the one and only twin brother of Hythlodaeus. They both shared the same vivid red hair -- the hair that had marked them as mistaken siblings for Azem when they were young -- and they both, much to the chagrin of everyone around them, had the same penchant for mischief. So that Nabriales had allowed his brother entry into the capitol while they were away...well. That did not bode well, especially given Mitron’s reaction. Emet-Selch took one more look around the hall, sighed, and leaned against the door to his own office. “Well, in that case, I’m not going to risk it,” he decided. After all, he knew his best friend _far_ too well to think himself exempt.

The next of them to be inflicted with whatever it was he’d done was Halmarut himself, having finally rolled his eyes and opened the door to his office, only to stagger back with a startled yell and spluttering as _something_ seemed to strike him square in the face, exploding and leaving his head and shoulders drenched with bright green paint. Emet-Selch’s eyes drew themselves back to Mitron, who was still on the floor struggling to get up, as it seemed whatever had been waiting for him involved the floor stained slippery with water and blue paint.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, though his lips twitched, as he watched Halmarut roll his sleeves up and storm into his office and start shouting, a few things crashing about, and several others eye their own doors with trepidation.

“It _cannot_ be that bad!” Emmerololth declared at last, opening her door only to shriek as a mass of feathers and rainbow glitter seemed to drop itself upon her head. Altima gasped beside her, pulling her own door open and yelping as something dragged her inward, a musical sound as if she’d fell upon several bells and other chimes echoing forth.

Deudalaphon let out a shriek of her own, as she and several others opened their own doors-- several spots of red and orange paint splattered Lohgrif, Igeyorhm was covered in shimmering silver sparkles that she was frantically trying to brush off, and Pashtarot was victim to a series of disembodied pops and snaps of sound and light going off in his face and around his head every time he tried to enter his office. “What is going on?!” She demanded, squeaking again as another throw pillow tossed itself at her head from the depths of her office.

“Oh, stars, he _did_ it!” Nabriales crowed in delight, clapping at the chaos, giggling all the harder as Fandaniel let out a frantic yelp, falling face first onto the floor as he slipped and slid in the small pile of gold confetti his office had produced. “I can’t believe he did it!”

Lahabrea’s eyes narrowed, the only one besides Emet-Selch and Nabriales himself that had yet to enter his own office. “Did _what?”_ He asked accusingly. “What nonsense did Bureau Chief Hythlodaeus get up to _this_ time?”

“Open the door and find out!” Nabriales giggled. “Oh, this is _beautiful_.”

Lahabrea squinted at him suspiciously, but then sighed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, might as well get it over with,” he muttered, and swung his door open. Of course, he was immediately greeted by most of his paperwork flying at him, some of it folded into funny shapes, and he let out a cry and hit the floor hard as he tried to bat it away. “Gah!” He yelped. “What is this, what did he do?!”

Emet-Selch squinted, then, as the Speaker’s office was right opposite his, and peered into the depths. Within the dim light of the room he saw, briefly, a few small sparkles of magic, floating and dancing around inside it and acting as the source of the paper that kept flying at the blond’s head. “Hm,” he said aloud, and turned to eye his door. “Well, alright then, let’s test this.” 

With a shrug, he opened his own door, barely managing to shift to the side in time so that the purple paint that flung itself at him only hit his shoulder, but not able to dodge the several multicolored bursts of light and sound that exploded in his face, making him squeak and stagger back, squinting through it at-- ah! “I knew it!” He declared, shooting his hands out to grab one of the shimmers of magic and light, only to touch something fuzzy and warm. 

The glamour snapped off, then, its magic defeated once it was in his grasp, and there in his hands wiggled...something he had never seen before. It was small and white-furred, with a round pink nose and stubby limbs, squinty little eyes and fluttering purple wings like a bat’s, with a single antenna drooping to the side from between tiny little ears and tipped with a soft, red sphere. It squeaked at him, making little noises that sounded like _kupo, kupo,_ and he raised his eyebrows. 

“Well, then,” he said simply, bemused. “Hythlodaeus has created little minions for himself, I see.”

Nabriales grinned, letting his own door finally open to reveal a few more of them, waiting almost obediently. “He called them moguri,” he explained brightly, letting one sit on his shoulder. “He’s been working on them for nearly half a century now-- he promised me they were all but done when we left, so I agreed to help him arrange their debut.”

“They can _glamour_ themselves?” Lahabrea asked, horrified, brushing himself off and snatching one out of the air now that he knew what to look for. “Stars above and Underworld below, that is the most horrifying thing I can think of in his hands, who gave him permission?!”

Nabriales grinned wider. “You know as well as I only two convocants have to sign off on a concept permission form, especially when it’s presented by the chief of the bureau himself, right?” He said smugly. “Azem was the other. Oh, he’s going to adore them!”

“I’ll _box his ears_ ,” Emet-Selch groused, letting his captive go. “How could he?”

“He thought the idea of tiny little creatures able to glamour themselves to cause mischief was _grand_ ,” Nabriales said happily. “They’re friendly, though, and amiable enough. After all, he promised they would help clean up once they caused a suitable amount of trouble.”

 _“Good,”_ Halmarut said irritably, glaring around at him as all the moguri in the offices popped into sight, floating around and kupo-ing cheerily. “They had better. And you, Nabriales, had better let your brother and Azem both there _will_ be consequences for this. For you, as well.”

Nabriales just smiled. “Worth it,” he said serenely. “I’m sure the others think so too.”

There was silence for a while, as both convocants and moguri began to clean things up, but then after a few minutes more, Emet-Selch paused, a thought occurring to him as his eyes widened.

“...what about Elidibus?” He asked, voice edged with horror-- the Emissary had an office on a separate floor, so he had gone on ahead, and now that it had occurred to him, had Hythlodaeus dared to---

“What about me?” Came the youngest convocant’s voice, and everyone -- whose eyes had gone wide at the question -- turned to look. Elidibus’ hood was off, revealing his red hair (that matched his elder brother’s), and his white robe was only slightly disheveled. He was no child, though Emet-Selch had known him since he _was_ , but still rather young in comparison to the rest of them, and the lavender eyes behind his mask were both wise beyond his years and still with the innocence of youth, the kindness that had made some think him ill-suited to be Emissary. In his arms, though...sat a moguri with purple fur, innocent as ever, and he tilted his head slightly to study the half cleaned chaos. “ _Ah_ ,” he said. “That’s what he meant.”

His lips twitched, only briefly and barely enough for anyone besides Emet-Selch, who had known him for a long time, to see. “I was informed by this...moguri, was it, that his creator had sent the rest of his brothers to visit the rest of you for a bit of ‘practice’. I should have known it was _that_ sort of practice. Is everyone alright?”

“We’re fine, Elidibus,” Emet-Selch promised, amused. “I see not even Hythlodaeus dared to tease _you_.” 

“Oh, no,” the Emissary said. “Half of my supplies were floating on the ceiling when I arrived, but this one was kind enough to reverse that for me when I asked nicely.” The way the moguri’s pom drooped at the words was enough to reveal that it wasn’t actually _quite_ so nicely, but no one bothered to question that. “I’m apparently being given this one to keep, though,” he added, trying not to pout and remind them of his age. “He calls himself _Artemicion_.”

“Well, that’s kind of Hyth!” Nabriales said with a laugh. “Probably to remind you how to have fun, Elidibus.” He winced when he was glared at, but pressed on. “Or, I suppose, you can make it your assistant until you decide to take a proper one.”

“Suppose so,” Elidibus said dryly. “Apparently my br-- _Azem_ is being sent one as well to keep, named Stiltzkin. Perhaps I can use that to make sure he returns home on time for meetings from now on.”

Emet-Selch laughed. “Or simply to keep in touch,” he suggested, ignoring the look he was shot with the ease of someone used to it. “In any case, I suppose Hythlodaeus has achieved what he set out to do-- we’re all _thoroughly_ mischiefed out for the day.”

“Indeed we are,” Lahabrea muttered, shooting his own fond look at Elidibus, who straightened and tugged his hood back up, letting go of the moguri to straighten his robes with a quiet huff. “I hope this is out of his system for some time yet-- I’ve got _twice_ the paperwork to do now, thanks to him.”

Nabriales laughed as they all moved away, going back to cleaning up their offices and getting back to work, and even Elidibus, reassured that the others were well, headed back towards the lifts. “He’ll be glad to hear all of that,” he decided, moving back into his office. “A job well done, he’d say. And...you all needed a little more excitement, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These particular precursors to the modern moogle look like the versions of the creatures from Crystal Chronicles, for reference.
> 
> [See here, and coo in adorableness.](https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/finalfantasy/images/0/0c/Ffcc_moogle.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20090107170417)


	7. 7. nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nonagenarian[ non-uh-juh-nair-ee-uhn, noh-nuh- ]  
>  adjective  
> >of the age of 90 years, or between 90 and 100 years old.

**DAY 7: NONAGENARIAN**

“What are you staring at?”

Hades shifted, peering as best he could over his shoulder at Bran, given that he was leaning against his arm and draped bonelessly across the grass. “That,” he said absently, waving a hand at nothing in particular in the distance.

Bran raised his eyebrows, the dark-haired young man leaning back to get a better look from his perch on his foldable fishing stool, balancing his rod on one leg. “...empty air?” He asked, bemused. “You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

“That,” Hades repeated, and then sighed. “That is the _point_. Empty air. The last I was here--” _Here_ being the southern part of the Black Shroud, the two of them sitting at the shore of the eastern Hathoeva River-- Quarrymill was just to their north, and they could still hear the faint clamor of adventurers as they prepared to add their blades to the continual stream of people in and out of the Gelmorran ruins nearby. “--one could see all of Amdapor from here, were you even brave enough to venture this far into the forest.”

“...Well, hate to disappoint,” Bran said, snorting. “But Amdapor’s nothing but mold choked ruins now, though you’re waving in the right direction. Been in there twice, and it doesn’t get any less horrible. You have to wear two scarves just to be able to breathe without getting ten kinds of nasty spores up your nose.” He grimaced. “Not to mention the keep down that way,” he added, pointing in the direction to their south, rather than the vague southeast Hades was waving. “Couldn’t go two fulms without tripping on a voidsent or a cultist. Or a cultist summoning a voidsent. Or a statue turning _into_ a voidsent.” He rolled his eyes.

“...you have _far_ too much excitement in your life,” Hades said with a laugh. “It makes me exhausted just to hear of it.” The laugh faded, though, and he settled once more against Bran’s side, letting his eyes close. “It was beautiful, once. Amdapor, that is. The artificers were quite cunning, and the agora on a good day was full of such life...it reminded me of Amaurot, in the beginning. Before the war, at any rate. Enough that I do miss it, sometimes, now that I can.”

“Why am I not surprised you were involved in that,” Bran said, shaking his head-- sometimes, now, it was startlingly easy to forget what the man beside him had done. It was easy to forget what he’d seen, what he’d been through, the terrible crimes he’d committed in the name of his hope and his people. He was...different, now, mostly harmless, but at the same time-- those things just didn’t go away. He sighed, watching the other man for a long moment, before reeling his line in and setting his rod across his lap briefly. “...was that the last time you were in Eorzea?” He asked.

Hades shrugged, eyes still closed. “Yes,” he said. “When that Rejoining took place and the flood hit, my job was done-- or rather, a few decades before that, to be specific-- I left my vessel and returned to the rift for a nap. When I made my appearance on the Source once more, it was to become Solus.” 

“...you took a fifteen hundred year nap,” Bran said after a moment, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Gods, I forgot how _old_ you are! You’ve seen _everything_ , haven’t you?”

“Not everything!” Hades protested, opening his eyes to sit up and pout dramatically at the Warrior of Light. “I’m not _that_ old, either, don’t you accuse me of that!”

“You’re, what--” Bran paused, doing some math. “--twelve thousand, at least? Not counting however old you were when the Sundering hit. That’s old, Hades. You’re _old_.” He grinned. “I should know, I’m _barely_ twenty-two!”

Hades pouted even more, shoving lightly at him. “Don’t you start!” He scolded. “I was actually one of the younger convocants, thank you _very_ much.”

“Oh yeah?” Bran asked, amusement settling into genuine curiosity. “Who was the oldest?”

The ancient blinked, startled as always when he was asked about the world before, but then smiling, always glad to answer. It was bittersweet, to talk about days long gone and a world forever lost, but...he had asked Bran to remember; it would be wrong of him not to do the same. “Well,” he began. “The youngest of the convocation, first off, was myself, Nabriales, Fandaniel, and Elidibus, in that order.”

“Elidibus?” Bran asked, though his voice wavered slightly as it always did at the mention of the Emissary now that their battle with him was ended. “He was the youngest?”

Hades nodded. “Oh, not to say he was a child!” He corrected. “He was...ah, the equivalent of about your age.” He waved a hand. “Appointed around then, really. A few people doubted his fitness for the position, both due to his age and how kind he was, but...he did his duty well, even then.” His own eyes grew distant and sorrowful a moment, but he rubbed his face and shook his head. “We all fussed over him, really, even those of us closer to his age. I wouldn’t say I was that young, myself-- the equivalent of some thirty or so summers, by mortal count, give or take a few-- but I had other reasons to worry, so...”

He took a breath, smile returning. “As for the elders among us, that would be Halmarut, Deudalaphon, and Lahabrea,” he said cheerily. “Halmarut was the seniormost convocant of our particular set-- he’d seen a few cycles through other incumbents, even. Very strict and stern, he was. Almost frightening. Deudalaphon wasn’t much better, though she was a little more lenient; she was the minutes-taker and Convocation historian, as befitted her years and wisdom, and I think she was the only one who did get on with Halmarut, really.”

Bran snorted. “I remember going through Halmarut’s section of the Akadaemia,” he said. “The man invented morbols, I think I’m gonna hold a grudge _forever_.” That aid, he paused, and blinked rapidly. “Lahabrea was _old?”_ He asked, bewildered. “He-- what? That’s almost as weird as hearing that he was a scholar!”

“He was!” Hades said happily, clearly delighted to get to tease the other unsundered Ascian even now that he was long lost. “One of the eldest. He took his post when I was still a student! And _stars_ , could you tell. Grouchy old man, he was. Everyone knew it. He only softened even slightly for a select few people, and I was...lucky, near the end, to be one of them. Even if it was only because we agreed more often than we did not.” His gaze went distant, then, losing himself in memories, reminiscing on a world that was now long since out of his reach.

Bran watched him for a moment, quiet, before he sighed and tugged on some of his hair. “So you haven’t actually set foot in Eorzea since the War of the Magi,” he said. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” He grinned. “If I’d known that, I would have dragged you on a tour _ages_ ago, instead of making you tag along to the same four fishing spots the past fortnight.” He paused. “For that matter, you weren’t on this star _at all_ for all that time, and then you were pretty much stuck in Garlemald-- right?”

“Ilsabard in general, not simply the capital, but yes,” Hades said, a slow smile beginning to form on his face. “I haven’t seen most of the Source in _centuries_.”

“Well, that settles that!” Bran decided, standing. “Come on, we’re going adventuring. Gods, you and G’raha...I’m _surrounded_ by idiot old men I get to drag around Eorzea, apparently. At least he’s only been away for _one_ century, and that’s only by his count, it’s only been like two years on this end.” He grinned. “ _You_ , though-- we’re not immortal, after all, or even that long lived. The things you can miss in only _a hundred_ years, and you were away for fifteen!”

“I’m well aware,” Hades said with a smile, accepting the hand up that Bran offered. “And I’m grateful for the impending tour. Especially,” he added, leaning to rest his forehead against Bran’s, smile softening as he watched the Warrior’s cheeks dust pink. “Alongside someone who loves this world as much as you do.” He reached to take Bran’s hands. “Show me why this world means so much to you, won’t you, hero? Let me see why you fought for it.”

Bran smiled faintly back, cheeks still warm, and he squeezed Hades’ hands. “I will,” he promised. “I know it isn’t yours, and it’s not...it _can’t_ be, but-- I’ll show it to you anyway. _My_ world. Now that you can see it properly.”

There was silence, then, a soft and comfortable one, as they stood there together, and then Bran broke away, cheeks darkening as he coughed and began to gather his fishing supplies up and stuff them into his pack. “J-Just make sure you don’t overexert yourself, old man,” he teased, letting the moment pass -- though his fond smile and red face told otherwise -- and looking back up at the ancient. “Don’t want you to throw your back out or something, with how you slouch around.”

“Excuse you!” Hades spluttered, flushing himself, but then dissolved into laughter. “Hold that sharp tongue of yours, hero,” he scolded at Bran’s grin. “Or I’ll do so _for_ you.”

He laughed again, winking, and danced out of the way of the Warrior’s reach, grinning ear to ear at the spluttering, embarrassed mess he’d turned the young man into. Perhaps he was an old man, in a way, old and endlessly tired, but...with these fleeting little lives, with this young man -- his hero, his sun reborn -- he felt young again, in all the ways that mattered. And for that, he really couldn’t complain.


	8. 8. clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clamor [ klam-er ]  
>  noun  
> >a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people:  
> >a vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction:
> 
> ( TW: Ito/Lovecraft style monster descriptions, as per the norm with Terminus beasts. )

**DAY 8: CLAMOR**

It started, as most things do, with whispers.

Azem had been traveling on the far ranges of the colonized areas of the star, walking about in the forests and mountains that seldom saw the tread of foreign feet, places where the villages were small and far between, filled with hardy sorts who relied on each other and the sweat of their brows more than the aid of any outside their homes-- not for lack of desire, but simply because they were so far out of reach.

But in these villages, in the odd roadside inn that sat solemn and quiet in the middle of long, endless roads winding through valleys and deep woods, there were whispers. 

Whispers that, of course, as always, Azem listened to. Moving towards those who spoke them, bartering for drinks with a tale or aid in the kitchen, asking after the tales and offering aid if it was possible. 

This time, though, the whispers...sent dread running down even _his_ spine. He, who had faced down great hulking beasts several times his size with a laugh. He who had braved the most fearsome of caves and mountains and other environs, smiling all the while. No, he had little fear even in the worst of times and places, but this...this was unsettling.

A sound, they said. A sound unlike anything they had heard before, one that defied description in any form-- a great and terrible thing, that was all they could say. A sound that rattled their bones and shook their souls, tearing their magics free from their moorings and causing them to run wild, summoning beasts twisted and horrible and warping reality around them, painting nightmares upon the waking world. No one he spoke to at first had seen this first hand-- it was all secondhand accounts, hushed in fear and wariness as if speaking of it would cause it to happen.

So Azem set forth to hunt down proof. If there was such a thing as this Sound, then he needed to see it, witness it, _feel_ it for himself-- that way, he could tell the others in Amaurot. That way, they could deal with it now, before it went out of hand. Because something like this, if left unchecked...stars above, he couldn’t even imagine it.

He followed the rumors to the very edges of civilization, chasing any story he could hear of this Sound. He would spend cycles of the moon on his hunt, ignoring calls or messages-- his poor moguri was like as not driven to drink at the stress of it, given that it probably had a good dozen missives from his brother and the Convocation by now, but he was focused. Driven, even. He needed to know, needed to see (or hear, rather) for himself. To know the danger, so that he could then give aid to those in need of it, and-- and if possible, deal with the threat himself.

After a while, his search began to bear fruit. And it did not bode well.

A farming village in the shadow of a mountain was where he finally encountered more than whispers, and it was more than that by far-- memorials rested in the little square for half a dozen, and the survivor of it sat quiet, staring at something far in the distance and hearing nothing anyone said to him. He asked around, tried his best to learn, and was sent to a little clearing, where the afflicted had gone to gather plants and herbs for their cooking and other needs. 

It was no longer a clearing, not the same way. The trees were black and twisted, branches like the charred hands of corpses reaching for the sky, grabbing at it and each other in terror and panic. The ground was blackened as well, bubbled and rippled like a vat of boiling pitch, and the herbs that once grew were twisted into spirals and curling nightmare plants, vivid purple and red and green and dripping with acid and thorns and strange and unsettling shapes in its flowers that looked almost reminiscent of screaming faces. The air shimmered like a heat wave in the height of summer, and the aether was thick and choking and wrong-- not even Azem, one of the strongest mages upon the star, could linger long, staggering back out of it in horror.

Stars above and Underworld below, he thought. What was this? What did it do? Where did it come from? It was-- he needed to know more.

The next village he came to that the Sound had struck, the victim had been killed by the beast it had called from him, and they had begged him to kill it in turn. So he had-- a horror, it had been, a twisted thing with too many eyes, too many mouths, clawed and jointed limbs like an insect and dripping mandibles like a spider, but with fangs and patches of matted black fur interspersed with raw dark flesh dripping some kind of acidic fluid. A nightmare made flesh, made real, created and drawn from the darkest depths of one’s imagination and forced into existence no matter what its unwilling creator wished.

He killed it, of course, but-- stars. Stars, he needed to know more. Needed to see it himself, not just the aftermath. He needed to _experience_ it. To hear it for himself, this Sound, and bring that knowledge back with him to the Convocation. Because what he _did_ know, now? Is that it needed to be stopped, whatever it was. Dealt with and defeated before it got worse. Because what he _had_ seen was...horror. Pure horror.

He found it eventually, what he sought, purely by chance. 

He was ranging the outlands, an open moor with a forest along one side and a mountain range in the distance, when it happened. It came on suddenly, without warning-- a sound ringing in his ears, loud and shrieking.

They’d been right, he managed to think past the noise-- it defied description. It was a sound unlike anything on this star, deafeningly loud, high-pitched and wailing, a cacophony of countless whistles and keens and sustained whining, howling and roaring all in layers upon layers, booming and sharp as if it were claws that dragged themselves down his very soul, auditory knifeblades that dragged and tore and screamed, echoing and resonant and rattling around like a thousand thousand needles and pins and-- and--

Oh, was one of those voices _him_ screaming?

He came to awareness again curled on the ground, clutching his head and trembling, weak as an infant and unable even to stand, bile still bitter in his mouth. Heavy eyes cracked open, fluttering painfully, and he struggled to pull himself upright, feeling as if he was made of both stone and jelly. “....stars,” he gasped out, mouth cottony and dry from losing the contents of his stomach (and being unaware of it, apparently). “What--”

His head pounded, traces of the sound -- _Sound_ , really, it had earned a capital letter -- still ringing in his ears and soul, and he slowly staggered to his feet to survey what had happened.

And what had happened was... _horror_.

The ground was blasted, broken and shattered earth like a riverbed after a drought, scorched and empty. What little grass and shrubs there was left were twisted and black, thorny and curling across the ground like snakes, writhing like living beings. The rocks and stones were shimmering in colors that couldn’t be described with the naked eye, half melted and dripping in ways no solid matter should. The area of twisted, warped nature stretched out several feet in all directions, trailing off into the natural greenery of the moor he was on like someone had simply taken a fist to the earth centered on him, letting corruption spread out from his location and no further.

And standing before him was a monster. A _beast_. 

It was burning, lit aflame like a bonfire, vaguely human shaped but charred to a crisp, eyes wide and staring over a mouth filled with teeth like swords, almost canine in shape. It had too many legs, tipped with steel-blade claws, red hot like molten metal, and its tail lashed back and forth, snapping against the ground and making sparks fly with each strike. “Oh, stars,” Azem gasped out, summoning shield and sword to him. It roared at him, the sound reverberating through his body, and he couldn’t even summon the presence of mind to shout back, let alone make some kind of joking remark. This thing had come from-- from _him_. This thing, this twisted patch of land, the air shimmering with warped and corrupted aether-- the sound had pulled it from _him_. From his mind, his soul, his nightmares.

He couldn’t quite recall killing it, only remembering watch it crumble to ash, leaving naught but scraps behind, and he remembered picking up the claw left behind, a sharp and twisted piece of metal that had cooled into an ugly mottled grey and black. This, his he would take back to the others. Home. To Amaurot, to the Convocation.

They had to know. Had to see this as he had. They had to realize the danger that was out here, because they had to do something about it. Now, before it could get any worse. Before it came closer to their homes.

Or else...or else...the whole star would know the same horror. And he could not bear that thought.


	9. 9. lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lush [ luhsh ]  
> adjective  
> >(of vegetation, plants, grasses, etc.) luxuriant; succulent; tender and juicy.  
> >characterized by luxuriant vegetation:

**DAY 9: LUSH**

Amaurot was a beautiful city, with a great many amenities-- public baths, amphitheatres, museums of all sorts, libraries, a sprawling zoological park and aquarium, debate halls, public forums, parks for children, and many other things.

But Halmarut’s favorite -- as was entirely obvious to any who knew even his title -- was the botanical garden.

There were many gardens within the city, both for sitting and relaxing and for walking through and examining the flora within, but the Pollafyta Gardens were his pride and joy. His, and generations of those bearing the seat of Halmarut. While he could also count his department at the Akadaemia and its greenhouses part of his dearest creations, those were not open to the public at large. The Gardens, however, were; and in that is where he found his greatest pleasure, to share what he loved best with the city and its people.

The Gardens were located on the westernmost border of the city, farthest away from the coastline it stood beside-- a sprawling place surrounded by a tall fence of grey marble and black wrought iron patterned to seem as vines, lit with magicked torches placed at even intervals atop it that shone in myriad colors. Its entrance was a large gate, black and etched with golden and silver patterns depicting yet more vines and foliage. A small allowance of grandeur, for what was the garden but a display of beauty and loveliness, open for the people of the city to bask in the sights...as well as learn from them, as with all things.

Each soul to take the position of Halmarut contributed a new section of the Gardens, something none had ever seen before. Two generations before him had placed within it a floating arbor, the flowers and trees and bushes hovering above the ground and floating in the sky, slowly spinning and turning in all shades one could imagine. His direct predecessor had given them a stained glass garden, each flower and tree with leaves and petals of all colors, translucent and with a glittering sheen to them that made walking through the area a cascade of multicolored lights, painting the ground and its visitors in dancing rainbows.

His own? His own had been a wonder. 

At first it seemed almost eerie, a dark wood forest with bark a deep and pulsing blue and leaves a soft gradient of dark blues to turquoises. The trunks were thick and the leaves covered all, making a dark and comforting bower for visitors to walk through-- but within, it was lit a thousand colors, shades of red and orange, pink and green, golden yellow and sky blue-- a bioluminescent haven, every tree and vine and bush, every flower rippling with an endlessly moving sea of color, neon and glowing. Not the entire thing, but stripes and spots, spirals and lines, the veins of leaves and ovals of seeds, stamens and fruits alike. The lights moved, too, flickering and flashing, slow and even so as to not blind or cause dizziness, but it made the whole corse of trees as a living thing, endlessly moving and shifting, never the same moment to moment.

He had been so proud upon its unveiling in his youth, reveling in the joy that only one with little experience and untempered arrogance can have as people exclaimed in awe and wonder. Even now, older and wiser and far more humble, he still smiled every time he visited, watching people marvel at it. 

He was growing older, yes, but he did not wish to step down just yet -- not least of which because his compeers at the moment were a bunch of ridiculous children in need of oversight -- and yet...and yet sometimes he wondered what new delight, green and glorious, would his successor put into being? 

That, he looked forward to. But for now, he remained, Halmarut of the Gardens. Keeper of the arboretums and -- as some would say, with mild irritation -- Creator of the morbols. The eldest Convocant, and guardian of all things that grew upon the star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pollafyta Gardens = from πολλά φυτά, or _pollá fytá,_ Greek for 'many plants' because that seems to be the running theme with Mr. More's naming conventions and therefore Amaurot's.
> 
> For Halmarut's forest, please picture the forest on Pandora from James Cameron's Avatar.


	10. 10. avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> avail [ uh-veyl ]  
> verb   
> >to be of use or value to; profit; advantage:  
> >to be of use; have force or efficacy; serve; help:  
> noun  
> >advantage; use; efficacy; effective use in the achievement of a goal or objective:

**DAY 10: AVAIL**

It was late at night, late enough that most were asleep in their beds and the Capitol was empty. Well, almost empty-- two pairs of footsteps echoed down the halls, the sound bouncing around the corridor as they moved. An even pace belonged to one set, and the other a faster one, hurrying to keep up with his companion’s longer legs.

“Please?” Elidibus asked, lavender eyes bright behind his mask as he tried to keep up with the other convocant. “Just this once, Azem?”

“It’s just _us_ , Artie,” Azem replied, keeping his pace just slow enough to match the younger man’s as he turned to smile at him. “You don’t have to use my title.”

Elidibus frowned faintly. “But we’re still on duty,” he said, stubbornly-- he was new to the position, having only been appointed a mere eight or nine cycles of the moon ago, and he yet still clung insistently to propriety and good manners, having not quite yet relaxed into the role (and, Azem mused, possibly never would entirely; he was simply that eager to be seen as worthy to be among them, and a worrier besides). “So you’re still Azem.” He huffed faintly. “And don’t call me _Artie,_ I’m not a child any longer.”

“You’re my little brother,” Azem said with a laugh as he paused and ruffled his hair. “So you’ll _always_ be Artie. Even when we’re both older than Halmarut.” He let Elidibus straighten it out, and then sighed, taking his mask off so he could look his younger brother in the eyes. “You really want to, don’t you?” He asked, a small smile lingering on his face.

“Yes!” Elidibus said, and then flushed, clearing his throat and fidgeting briefly. “I-I mean. _Yes_. As Emissary I cannot leave the city with you or be called to your side, so-- so if there’s any chance that I may aid you in your duties at all, then I-- I wish to help. Just this once? Please? Let me help you, Az--” He swallowed, and then took his own mask off, albeit just briefly, fingers twitching at its edges. “ _Apollo_. Please?”

Azem looked down at him for a moment, and then smiled widely. “Stars, how can I say no to you?” He said. “I was never going to dismiss the idea outright, you know. I was just worried. But honestly, you’re right. If I can’t really take you _with_ me, then...this might be our only chance to have an adventure together!” He replaced his mask and offered his hand. “Come on, then, _Elidibus_ , I do hereby recruit you unto rendering your aid to me for the sake of this call to action. Or something like that.”

“Ah!” Elidibus was startled, briefly, clearly having not expected to have such an easy time getting his way, and then lit up. Even hurriedly replacing his mask couldn’t hide the shine of his eyes and the smile on his face, and he took Azem’s hand and held it tightly. “Y-Yes, of course. As Elidibus of the Convocation, I do also herby vow to lend my aid to the office of the Traveler in this--” His voice wavered a moment, and then faltered, his visible joy seeping into it as well. “In this _adventure_ , as my impartiality is not needed here. Not this time.”

“Then let’s go!” Azem declared, and hurried all the quicker down the halls. “I can’t _wait_ to see this, the message I got from the Akadaemia made this sound amazing!”

Elidibus blinked, startled, as he scurried to keep up on their madcap run towards the Anyder facilities. “The problem is at the Akadaemia?” He asked. “Is everyone alright? Something bad didn’t happen, did it?” His brow knit beneath his mask in worry, and was only jolted out of it by a gentle tugging of his hand.

“Nooo, no no no, nothing _bad_. Just...chaotic?” Azem said brightly, grinning. “ _Apparently_ there’s a creation loose in the Words of Lahabrea, and it’s gotten out of hand enough that they asked me to help out,” he explained as they got into the lobby and were waved through. “I wasn’t told the details, only that it’s...something else. Mostly harmless, but still rather a mess.”

Elidibus blinked. “But what about Lahabrea himself?” He asked, still stubbornly clinging to his well-meant concern. “Why can he not deal with it himself? It _is_ his department...”

“...not sure,” Azem admitted. “Something about being indisposed, but it’s hard to know for sure, the message wasn’t that detailed.” He grinned. “But he’ll owe me for the help, and that’s worth it enough!”

“...are you going to use this to get him to give you a concept matrix?” Elidibus ventured, lips twitching in amusement again. “You know Hythlodaeus will just give you one…”

“Yes, well, Hyth doesn’t have access to _all_ of them, and Lahabrea needs to learn that my ideas are all perfectly safe and will not damage his concepts, and if I borrow one from him directly he’ll have no choice but to accept that,” Azem declared as they turned a corner. “Hmmm...of course I cannot know which I’ll need or why I would need one, but really, _any_ would be quite the treat were I to have the opportunity. He’s one of the best creators I’ve ever seen, you know.”

“Please don’t wish for there to be a need for one,” Elidibus said, trying to sound scolding and failing due to clear anticipation at the idea. “But you aren’t wrong-- Lahabrea is _amazing_. The concepts he comes up with, the detail in them...truly, he is incredible.” His eyes shone, as they always did when he spoke of his admiration for his compeers. “I still cannot quite believe that I can…”

“You can,” Azem cut him off with a warm smile. “You’re part of the convocation now; we’re _all_ your family now, not just me. And not just family, but _equals_. So you can bother Lahabrea any time you like, for any reason at all, even if it’s just to come by and see what marvel’s he’s thought up this time.”

“You really don’t want to know the answer to _that_ ,” came a new voice, and the two men both stopped near the entrance to Lahabrea’s department, blinking at the speaker. She was a young woman, both small of stature and near to Elidibus’ age, black hair peeking out of her hood and mask slightly askew above a freckled nose and cheeks. “This isn’t exactly another Ifrita.”

“Cassandra!” Elidibus said warmly, dropping his propriety just for a moment to smile at her. “I have not seen you in some time. I had nearly forgotten you were Lahabrea’s assistant. Have you been well?”

The young woman beamed back at him. “Very! I’d heard you were appointed Elidibus, but I’ve been so busy I never got the chance to stop by the Capitol to congratulate you.” She turned to smile at Azem. “We were in the same year of our studies,” she explained. “You’re Azem, his brother? He always talked about you. It’s really nice to finally meet you in person!” She laughed. “Though I wish it were less ridiculous circumstances!”

“Ridiculous circumstances?” Azem asked, tilting his head and unable to keep from grinning. “Do tell. What’s happened here, why was I called in?”

Cassandra laughed. “Oh, it’s kind of objectively hilarious, really, but it’s definitely a problem,” she explained, motioning for them to follow her. “See...well, have you seen Lahabrea recently?” She asked, and sighed upon their hesitant denials as they realized that they had not. “He’s been working on a new project, and he, ah...well, let’s say he’s been awake for a tad too long and had a tad too much coffee.” She paused, and grinned. “Well...three full weeks, to be exact, and I’ve lost count of the mugs he’s been handed. But in any case, he...well, he tried to Create something in that particular state, and it’s...well...see for yourself,” she said, and gestured as they entered the department proper.

And it was a disaster. The creation-- _creations_ were everywhere, tiny little monochrome creatures resembling maned, horned canines-- dozens of them, crawling over everything, getting into everything like particularly determined house cats, and generally being absolute nuisances...and, every so often, one would pause, and shimmer, and another would appear next to it.

“...they’re _replicating_ themselves,” Elidibus said in shock, blinking rapidly. “What-- how did-- did he truly make such an error in the creation process that…?”

“I told you,” Cassandra said. “He hasn’t slept for three weeks, and I think he’s composed of mostly coffee at the moment-- in fact, the reason he hasn’t fixed this himself is because he’s passed right out on the couch in his office, and he likely won’t wake for some time.” She smiled. “So we called you, Azem. Not many other convocants have the, ah...range of experiences you do, after all.”

Azem smiled. “You’re not wrong!” He said brightly, rolling his sleeves up. “Alright, then,” he declared, looking over at Elidibus, who still looked somewhat stunned at the idea that a fellow convocant could err in such a...silly sort of way. “Come on, Elidibus! This won’t be too bad-- you know how to disperse aether, right? Well, we just have to be quick about it and a bit forceful besides, lest the little guys take offense to us clearing house!”

Elidibus blinked again, and then shook himself off and smiled back, tugging his sleeves up in a mirror of his elder brother’s. “Right, of course,” he said brightly. “Lead the way, Azem, and let us be about it!” 

Even if this were the one and only time he could have an adventure with his brother, with Azem, with his inspiration--- _especially_ so, he would treasure it. He could always hope for more, for another chance at this, but...this one? This one was his first, the first time he could stand at his brother’s side as an equal, not simply his younger brother. As Azem and Elidibus, not simply Apollo and little Artemis. This was a gift, what he had always dreamed of, and he would cherish it always, for all the rest of his years. 

An adventure--- _their_ adventure, even if it was a small one. And he had been able to help.


	11. 11. ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ultracrepidarian [ uhl-truh-krep-i-dair-ee-uhn ]  
> adjective  
> >noting or pertaining to a person who criticizes, judges, or gives advice outside the area of his or her expertise

**DAY 11: ULTRACREPIDARIAN**

It seemed at first a day like any other, business as per usual. The Capitol hummed with activity as always, each person doing their work and carrying on their duties with the same focus and passion as always. Elidibus, still only holder of his position for just a few decades -- a blink of an eye, still, to their long lives -- was proud as ever and always to be part of the gears turning within their great city, and though it could be...tedious...at times, with all the paperwork, he was happy. Happy to serve, happy to help, and happy to be among such great minds as the others in the Convocation. They were all incredible people, talented and brilliant, and he loved them deeply. Even if, well...sometimes they could be a bit _much_.

Like now, in point of fact.

He heard them approaching his office (alone, apart and above the floor containing the rest of their offices) far before they reached it -- the shouting was audible all the way at the lifts, and Elidibus entertained the idea briefly that he could hear it while they were still _in_ one. His moguri companion squeaked unhappily at the racket and dove under his desk, and he sighed, putting down his pen and leaning back, watching the door and trying to catch which of his compeers were arguing.

Emet-Selch’s voice was recognizable near immediately -- he was slow to openly _anger_ , though Elidibus knew he kept much of his frustrations and annoyances to himself and quick to feel such things, but he also knew how readily he was willing to express his complaints or point out ill logic in others -- but it took a moment to pin the other voice as Altima’s. Hm.

The words themselves were difficult to parse, muffled as they were by the door and walls, but they quickly burst in, Emet-Selch in the lead, with Altima close at his heels. “Elidibus!” Emet-Selch exclaimed, cheeks flushed in frustrated anger beneath his mask. “I-- you-- tell her she’s being entirely unreasonable and completely ridiculous, and has no right to try to speak to me on my position!”

“I apologize for the interruption, but it seems as if my compeer has decided to act the unruly child over well earned critique and advice,” Altima said, voice stiff and annoyed in its own right. “But perhaps you might tell _him_ that he is the one being unreasonable, and I am entirely correct in my assessments, if he would just--”

Elidibus resisted the urge to simply rest his head on his desk and groan, but only just; instead he just sighed, blinking up at them. “What happened?” He asked-- as tiring as this was at first glance, it was more important that his beloved compeers were upset. And as the Emissary, he was...well, it was his job to soothe such upsets, and more than that he wanted to. Why wouldn’t he, when he loved them so? He could not bear for them to be unhappy, especially with each other. “Please, tell me. And one at a time!” He added quickly as both of them opened their mouths. “Emet-Selch, you first.”

“Do you recall the phoenix incident?” Emet-Selch asked. “It was before your appointment and just after mine, but I know it was well documented-- and there have been a few similar incidents since.” Elidibus paused for a moment, but nodded quickly; he had read all of the records, as far back as he could, both in preparation for his appointment and as part of his duties after. He felt obligated to! He needed to know everything he could, for his duties, and because it was important, to know everything his fellow convocants had done, all the wonderful things they’d achieved. 

“Lahabrea and I have been working on better safeguards for creation, in order to prevent further incidents of wayward souls caught on concepts as they come to being,” Emet-Selch explained further. “And apparently some of the paperwork came across Altima’s desk, and she deigned to approach in order to tell me how we are doing it entirely wrong.” His lips thinned. “Stars be glad she approached _me_ , rather than Lahabrea, or this might have gone all the worse.”

Elidibus nodded, twisting his pen in his hands. “That’s a very good idea, Emet-Selch,” he said with a smile. “I’m glad you and Lahabrea are working on it. Protecting the souls within the Underworld from such unneeded suffering is ever an important task.” He tilted his head at Altima, more curious now than ever. “What did you see wrong with the project so far, then, and why does Emet-Selch think the criticism invalid?”

“It won’t _work_ ,” Altima declared. “The idea is _completely_ unfounded in logic. Aether is wont to flow, that is its natural state. To stopper it in any way is akin to trying to catch air. Their plan is to weave nets of aether around the Akadaemia and other facilities of creation, as to let it flow freely while preventing souls from flowing through the buildings and unintentionally being caught. But that is ridiculous. The waste of aether to build those nets, for the first matter, and secondly, it will not catch anything! The Underworld moves where it wills and where it wishes, and no net could hardly dream of catching something so ephemeral as souls, or prevent such things from going where they would. What of the cycle? It would disrupt it unduly, and at such a great cost of aether--”

Emet-Selch hissed out a breath. “You have no _idea_ what--” He began, but Elidibus cleared his throat loudly. Not that he didn’t know exactly what the upset was coming from-- he had already figured that out, and understood. No, he just wanted this to be settled with as few tears and unhappiness as possible, and he knew that allowing them to argue would not help.

“Altima,” Elidibus said gently. “I understand your worries, given your duties as overseer of the aetherology department and all such studies. It does sound like it might use a fair bit of aether, were they to implement the nets.” He smiled. “But on the other hand, I do think it might work-- however, neither you nor I are qualified to assess that. After all, it is _Emet-Selch_ who has the gift of sight, and his domain is the Underworld. He would know better than anyone what would or wouldn’t work, is that not right?”

He looked over at Emet-Selch, who was struggling not to look triumphant. “I would, though, suggest you bring Altima into your next meeting with Lahabrea, so that she can hear in detail what you have planned and all of the aetherological aspects of the project-- I believe you when you say it will do as you wish it to, but perhaps having her see that you understand the risks and aether usage will allow you to come to a better understanding? She may even have advice for you in _that_ field, rather than your own.”

By the time he finished speaking, Altima and Emet-Selch had subsided considerably, and were both looking at him with odd expressions-- soft, and smiling, and...a little like how his brother looked at him all the time. The other Convocants did that a lot, he’d found, and he sunk a little in his seat, hoping his cheeks weren’t pink. “Is-- is that satisfactory for the both of you?” He asked, more shyly now. “If it isn’t, I have the time, and we can come to a better solution...”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Altima agreed after a moment, turning to Emet-Selch. “I do apologize if I overstepped,” she admitted. “My worry over the aether usage had me forget that the problem is to do with _souls_ , and though our fields overlap, they are not the same.”

Emet-Selch gave her a wry smile. “Apology accepted,” he told her. “Perhaps I should have better attempted to explain myself, but...you know as I do how, ah...sensitive I can be over my duties, much to my chagrin.” He inclined his head. “Lahabrea and I intend to meet in a few days to go over our work so far. You’re welcome to attend, so long as you give me time to inform him and bring him some coffee-- he’ll need to be properly plied with it if you wish for him to listen.”

“Duly noted,” Altima laughed, and then turned to Elidibus. “Thank you, Elidibus,” she said, smiling warmly. “You do have a way to calm down even the hottest tempers.” 

“This is true,” Emet-Selch added with a smile of his own. “You do your position justice, my friend. Solved our problem easily.” He reached out to pat him on the head, and Elidibus huffed quietly. “Thank you. And I do apologize for the commotion; you deal with _that_ enough when Azem returns home.”

Elidibus let out a startled little laugh. “That is true,” he acknowledged. “He should be back in a fortnight, speaking of, if you wished to prepare, Emet-Selch,” he told him earnestly, heedless of the older man’s reddened cheeks. “And truly, I am glad I was able to help. Please, let me know when you’ve come to a solution! I would love to know more of this project and see it when you are finished.”

“Of course, Elidibus,” Emet-Selch said. “Always. And thank you for the update on my dear Azem-- I’ll be waiting, as always.” That said, he and Altima departed, and left Elidibus to his work again.

He smiled to himself, shuffling his paperwork and letting out a satisfied little hum. He was truly glad to have this position, he reflected again. Glad to be able to help. To see his compeers, his friends, his brothers and sisters, to their own happiness, help them solve their problems and all the problems they all faced as one. He would treasure these days, as long as he held this post; it was what he had ever wanted, after all-- to aid those he loved. 


	12. 12. tooth and nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tooth and nail  
> adverb  
> >with all one's resources or energy; fiercely

**DAY 12: TOOTH AND NAIL**

The fight to hold onto yourself is constant, for some. A never ending battle with all that you are, for the sake _of_ all that you are. All that you wish to be. All that you don’t want to lose.

It was a fight that did not discriminate between hero or villain-- and in the end, it was both who fought that battle.

For Emet-Selch, it was a battle he had fought for eons, thousands of years. A battle he was near constantly tempted to let himself lose. So many times, so many characters and roles played across the stage. So many lives led, lived, decades at a time as someone else. Everyone else. It would be so easy to lose himself in it all, forget all that he once was in the cascade of other people’s faces. Throw away all that made him himself, and create something new, something less, a patchwork of mortal lives with no resemblance to the man he had been in a better world. His roles devouring him as surely as any flame, any primal.

But no.

Every time the urge struck him, every time he came close to doing it, to letting his iron grip falter and send him tumbling into the abyss-- he looked at them. At his brothers. At who they were and had been, and what they had become.

He looked at Lahabrea, bright and beautiful, remembered the brilliant man he once was-- the creator, the orator, the scholar and teacher. He looked at him and saw none of that, any longer, only a wildfire, an inferno consuming all that he was and everything around him, set to simply burn and burn and burn until naught remained but ash. Reckless and mad with it, running and running and refusing to stop for fear of losing his momentum, for fear of collapse if he did, and that momentum burning him all the way into nothing.

He looked at Elidibus, their sweet little brother, and the thing that wore his face. No longer was he the young man he had been, their Emissary, their young, bright-eyed compeer, so full of love and compassion and kindness, devotion to his duty-- no. No, that devotion was all that he was now, a form built of darkness and hope and salvation, memories slipping away from him as dust in the wind, each century stealing more and more from him, until one day there would be nothing left at all, and he would not even remember the people for which he fought, the reason for which he had become what he had.

He looked at them, and he knew. He knew he could not let go. For if all three of them fell into nothing, then what would be left? They were the only unsundered that remained. Were they all to lose themselves, their sundered brethren would not understand. No one would understand the loss, the gravity of it, and no one would understand why it was so important to make it all right again. No one would be left to recall Amaurot, those halcyon days. So he had to. Alone, if he must. He had to remember.

So he fought that desire, fought with everything left to him -- and perhaps one day, there would be something more. Another reason to fight beyond this soft sentiment. Something stronger, something that could truly make this worth fighting for. A better tomorrow, their better tomorrow, or something else. Because as hard as he fought, sometimes...sometimes, still, it was tempting. And sentiment could not sustain him forever.

And, meanwhile…

His life was far shorter than Emet-Selch’s eternity, but even so -- and perhaps because of this -- it was far more difficult, his fight. The fight of the Warrior of Light.

Still a child, in many ways, he had come to bear that burden far before any should have allowed it -- barely an adult, just as Elidibus had once been, a young man on his earliest years of no longer a boy -- and it had quickly become too much. He had fought for so long to keep himself steady, keep himself going, even as he fought all who threatened the people he loved and the home he cherished. He had fought through the sorrow and the pain, all the deaths and all the uncaring world who did not seem to see him as more than a weapon, could not see the boy beneath the armor, the youth who wielded the sword and shield. The man beneath the Warrior.

And so, is it any surprise that he broke?

But in that moment, that crystallized moment where he stood staring at his shattered soul, betrayal fresh in his mind and wounds bleeding afresh, broken heart in his hands and the fragile tower of his resolve naught but rubble...he knew he had a choice.

He could give it all up, throw it all away. Lose everything he had once been and let the darkness and pain, the anger and the hurt devour him until nothing was left but a shadow. He could turn his back on his duties, close his eyes and walk away from it all, let the world save itself or burn away and no longer give a damn which it was. He could become nothing, forget that he had been a child once, a child who looked at the faerie tales and said _I want to be a hero_. Forget that this had been his dream. Forget everything, walk away, and give up.

And he almost did. But were it not for one soul, one man with a friendly smile and a noble spirit, he would have. But it was that man who reminded him of one thing: there were people who cared for him, not as the Warrior but as the young man he truly was. That there was a reason to stay.

And so he stayed. For them. For those who cared, for those he loved. He would keep fighting, keep holding on. Look at the darkness and pain, the grief and the guilt, and say _no_. Tell it that it would not win. That he was in charge. That he would keep fighting, keep going, down this path that was his life, the path of a hero. For even if the word tasted bitter now, even if his bright soul was dimmed and shadowed, even if he was not the same as he used to be...he was still himself. And that person was one who fought for those he loved. One who clung to hope and sentiment, fiercely and with all that he was. For if he lost that, then what was there left to fight for?

Two men, divided in purpose, standing on opposing sides...yet not so different.

Both fighting with all they were and all they had been to hold onto those things, hold onto the men they were despite the world and their pain doing its best to devour them, destroy them, make them into strangers to themselves. Both holding onto sentiment, for those they loved, so that they would be able to keep fighting. Both heroes, of a sort-- both refusing to lose that simple wish, even if it only caused them more pain. 

When it would be the easy path to give up, give in, let it all flow away in the river of time...they did not let it. Would not let it. _Could_ not.

And one day they would meet, these two, who fought so fiercely to remain who they once were, as much as they could. One day they would look in each other’s eyes and see someone who understood.

The Warrior of Light, and the Ascian Emet-Selch-- no.

The young man named Bran, and the ancient named Hades.

They were who they were, in the end, and they would ever try to remain so. For those they loved, and for those they had lost...they would fight.


	13. 13. free day 2 (handicraft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> handicraft [ han-dee-kraft, -krahft ]  
> noun  
> >manual skill.  
> >an art, craft, or trade in which the skilled use of one's hands is required.

**DAY 13: FREE DAY (HANDICRAFT)**

It was known that Azem, as the Traveler, was gone from Amaurot more often than he was within the city. He would travel for cycles of the moon at a time, sometimes even years or decades, and only return for weeks before setting out once more. It was the hazard of his title and position, and those in the city knew well that it was simply his job-- they would see little of the Traveler, the Fourteenth convocant, and that was how it was. 

(Some thought, in whispers and in private places where no one would hear, that it was better that way, for the strange and eccentric ways of someone more versed in other cultures than their own was not...comfortable, in Amaurot, where all was equal and carefully maintained to be so; he was a burst of color and life and energy among a quiet and simple city, and not all appreciated it when it came.)

This day was one where Azem came home. 

There was never any fanfare when he did, really; his comings and goings were random, and he would frequently forget to announce his coming officially. He would sometimes let his brother know via their personal messengers, but in his capacity as Artemis, rather than his position as Elidibus. So there was never any real time to set up any sort of greeting. He just appeared like the wind, and vanished just as quickly and easily.

This day had seemed like any other-- a day busy at work, doing this and that, and retiring to his apartment at the end of the day. Emet-Selch let out a long, tired sigh as he brushed his fingers along the edge of his door, the aetherial lock recognizing his soul’s signature and allowing him egress. With another long, drawn out sigh, he removed his mask and threw his robe’s hood back, intending to head straight to bed for a nap, and perhaps later he would have a bath and eat dinner…

But all those thoughts flew straight from his head as he took in the sight of his apartment, and more specifically who was there.

_“Apollo!”_

The figure sprawled undignified on the couch startled awake almost immediately, shooting upright with a yelp and blinking blearily around the room. He was not in robes or mask, instead loose traveling pants and a simple tunic, and his boots and pack were tossed casually onto the floor beside the couch. Red hair stuck up in every direction, and gold eyes flickered back and forth a moment before landing on him, and he broke into a wide grin.

“Hades!” He said brightly, and held out his arms for a hug. “Good evening, welcome home!”

Emet-Selch blinked at him for a moment, and then spluttered, even as he moved to oblige and grant him his embrace. “I should be the one saying that!” He protested, sighing as he buried his face into that red hair. “You’ve been away for-- _years_ , this time! You didn’t even send word you were on your way back, you-- you--” He couldn't find a word to finish, and instead let out yet another sigh, letting himself tumble onto the couch so that they both sat side by side, entangled in one another. “Welcome home, dearest.”

Azem kissed him fondly. “I can’t stay long,” he admitted. “I’ve already received word from elsewhere that I’m needed, but I have tonight through the morning, so I’ve resolved to spend it here.”

“What about Artemis?” Emet-Selch asked, able to use the young man’s proper name since they were in private. “Have you no plans to visit your brother?”

Azem pouted briefly, though his expression shifted to one more serious. “Not this time,” he said reluctantly. “Since I’m only going to be here ‘til tomorrow, I didn’t want to get his hopes up. Next I’m here longer than this, I’ll see him first thing.” He leaned back. “I always hate doing that to him, coming home _just_ to say I have to leave again. You understand a little better, so…”

“Understandable,” Emet-Selch agreed. “He always looks so crestfallen when you’re here briefly, though he does his best to hide it. If it pleases you, I won’t tell him you were here. That way he will be all the happier when you _are_ able to stay longer.”

Azem simply nodded, but then brightened again. “In the meantime!” He said happily. “I brought presents!” He dove for his bag, rummaging in it for a moment before returning with several wrapped packages. “I was given a bunch of things for my help while I was away, and I already dropped off what I wish to keep at my apartment, but I saved some things for you! Hyth can wait for his presents, and I’ll get Artie’s to him next time I’m here longer.”

“Did you, now?” Emet-Selch said with a tired raise of his eyebrows, though his expression was still endlessly fond. “Go on then, what have you brought me?”

Azem just smiled, placing the three wrapped packages in his lap. “Unwrap them for yourself and see! Considering how many people outside the city don’t use creation magics unnecessarily, they still make such beautiful things, don’t you think?” it was true; in his travels, a lot of those living outside Amaurot and other large population centers didn’t create everything; with so few protections and controls in place it could get dangerous, and so they tended towards at the least gathering their materials from the world around them, using magic only to shape and build the desired product. In turn, he had noticed a great many of them were farmers or animal keepers of some sort, giving back to the star in exchange for the materials they took from it, a cycle all its own.

The first package was the smallest, and Emet-Selch tugged the twine free to let the soft paper unfold, and within the package sat a necklace -- it was cunningly braided cord of colored plant fibers, dyed in a dark umber, and strung with carefully worked metal beads, intricate and fine, and a piece of black opal, shimmering like it contained countless stars within its dark surface and carved delicately into the shape of an owl, detailed down to each feather. “This was by _hand?”_ He asked in an awed whisper, running a finger across its surface. “Stars above, how did they manage it?”

“The village is next to a huge mountain with deposits of almost any crystal one could name,” Azem explained brightly. “I helped chase an infestation of rock-eating creatures from their mines, and in turn they gave me some of their creations. I thought you would like that one; I kept some little figurines for myself, too, they’re all as _incredibly_ well-carved. And yes, by hand! They showed me their workshops, the work they put in is amazing. Go on, now, put it on and open the others!”

Emet-Selch laughed, leaning over to kiss Azem briefly before slipping the pendant over his head, tucking it neatly beneath his robes. One was allowed to wear whatever they so chose, in the end, but only if it were well concealed when in public-- to remain sedate and uniform was the necessity for their people, but beneath that, it was permissible to don what one so chose, in order to keep treasured things safe or to be content in the knowledge that it was _there_. “If you insist, Apollo, my dear,” he said, and moved on to the next one. 

That package was larger, and soft and lumpy, and upon opening that it was a handmade scarf of soft, warm fibers, some kind of fine woven cloth. It was dyed the colors of the sunset, one end a deep and vibrant purple that faded naturally through indigos and reds to reach a vivid orange at its other end, one color blending into the others seamlessly. “Ah,” Hades managed, going faintly pink. “You--”

“I didn’t _ask_ for it,” Azem said hastily, also going pink. “They-- that village raises this sort of-- ah, I’m not sure what it is, they called them _yans_ , I think? Adorable little things, apparently their fleece is very soft and takes to dyes well, so they-- when I helped them deal with a problem with the nearby river’s flow, they gifted me some things. Most of it I kept, but when I saw the colors on that scarf...I knew it had to go to you.”

After all...vibrant orange and rich purple -- he didn’t have the sight, but he had been told many a time by his friends, who both did, which colors their souls were. Hythlodaeus a vivid ultramarine, Hades a rich royal purple, and his own an orange bright like the sun -- were...well. To gift or wear something colored as your own soul was arrogance, but to wear the color a dear one was in tribute to how you cared for them...and to wear both colors together was announcing to the world your relationship, a deeper mark than just theirs alone and one known across the star as one of the most romantic possible gestures. In Amaurot things such as that were still concealed in public, but worn in such a way that it was easy to reveal them if needed; the scarf, though, was...well. Very, very obvious.

“Th-this is-- I can hardly wear this in public!” Emet-Selch protested, his face heating up considerably even though he was already winding it around his neck, fingers deep in the soft cloth. “I-- Apollo-- _really_ , now, this is...”

“I’m not sorry,” Azem declared, and then leaned in to kiss him a second time. “And I mean it, too. I would happily wear it everywhere I go-- in fact I have a matching one for when the seasons turn. Perhaps it is not so easy in _Amaurot_ , but the star itself shall know that we are one, my dear Hades, and I regret it not at all.” He smiled, delighting in how flushed his beloved’s face had gone. “Now, go on, open the last one,” he teased. “And stars willing you don’t regret anything.”

Emet-Selch raised his eyebrows again, though his face was still crimson ear to ear and buried in the scarf. “What’s that supposed to mean, you mischievous little--” He muttered as he opened it, the smell of baked goods kept fresh with magic hitting him, and he blinked down at the sweet-smelling package of pastries sitting in his lap. “....ah, you brought me sweets,” he said, immediately fond. “Why would I regret…”

The answer, it seemed, was immediately obvious as soon as he took a bite of one. It was freshly baked, the faint warmth of the oven still lingering-- a soft, thick, flaky pastry coated in honey and sugary syrup, and filled with nuts...and _raisins_. Grapes, Emet-Selch thought, and groaned. ...though he did finish the pastry before speaking again.

“You,” he said accusingly. “Are _terrible_.”

Azem just smiled. “I simply stopped back upon the island to see how they were faring!” He said innocently. “They have been doing incredibly well, and pressed all sorts of things on me. I have a few bottles of wine, too, left on the counter, and...well, Hyth got the _actual_ grapes. I snuck into his apartment and left them all over, because he’ll enjoy that.” His eyes twinkled in amusement. “You, however, I thought would enjoy the pastries. After all...they still exist because of me.”

“Because you are an absolute madman with no concept of moderation or restraint!” Emet-Selch said huffily, but contented himself with another pastry as if grudgingly accepting the bribe that it was truly meant to be, in part. “These were handmade as well, I assume?” He asked, once he was finished. 

“Of course,” Azem replied. “As is the wine. They age it in barrels crafted from the lumber of local olive and fig trees, apparently, and that supposedly gives it a distinct flavor,” he explained. “They make everything they use their grapes in by hand; it’s part of their local beliefs and traditions, actually. They see their vineyards and the grapes they grow there as a gift from the volcano itself, and so they make their wine and other products by hand every step of the way to show their respect.” He smiled faintly. “And that would have all been gone, had I not stepped in.”

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes fondly. “So you’ve said ad nauseum, my dear,” he teased. “I know, I know. Though I cannot imagine they were too pleased that you fought their volcano!”

“They didn’t see me do it!” Azem laughed. “I knew it was important to them, so I took my battle to the other side of the island, where they couldn’t see it. All they’re aware of is that I did stop the eruption-- I told them I negotiated with the spirit of their volcano, and they took that readily enough...after all, it wasn’t _wrong,_ exactly.”

Emet-Selch huffed again, but this time it was him who leaned in to kiss him. “I love you, you absolute madman,” he said softly. “No matter what trouble you get into, no matter how much you drive me up a wall, I will always love you.”

“As will I,” Azem murmured. “I am yours, and you are mine, until the sun and the moon cease their chase around our star.”

Emet-Selch let out a breathy little laugh. “Until the very stars are plucked from the heavens and cast to the Underworld,” he finished, the lines of a vow known to all lovers in Amaurot, all those on their star.

Azem just smiled, kissing him again and standing. “Now come,” he said happily. “We’ve a whole night ahead of us before I must prepare to leave, and I _did_ bring that wine! Let us get absolutely soused and have ourselves a good time, my dear Hades, and make another lovely memory that will hold you over until next I return home!”

“Apollo!” Emet-Selch yelped, embarrassed, but then sighed and placed the remainder of the package of pastries carefully on the table. “Oh, very well,” he said with a laugh. “If you insist. I _would_ like to try that wine of yours, seeing as you drove me half mad with your antics to make sure it remained.” He held out a hand as Azem returned with two glasses and a bottle, and accepted his with a soft smile.

Things like this-- this wine and the pastries, the scarf, the pendant...all made by hand, by people and villages and cultures that Azem had found in his travels, had protected and saved, allowed to remain living and practicing their own unique ways of life. Were it not for their Traveler, perhaps these things would cease to exist. And...so, Emet-Selch supposed, he could not hoard his beloved to himself. He belonged in part to their entire star, and he could not keep him for himself alone. But...that was alright.

That was alright, for he would always return home, as the sun sets in the same place at the end of its long turn across the sky. He would always return to him, and he would always be there to welcome him back.

From now, as they’d vowed and would always vow again, until the stars themselves fell from the heavens.


	14. 14. part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part [ pahrt ]  
> verb (used without object)  
> >to go apart from or leave one another, as persons  
> >to be or become separated from something else (usually followed by from).

**DAY 14: PART**

Today was a momentous day. The newly appointed Azem, fresh into his post, was about to set off on his first journey.

Azem himself was terrified. He had to admit, maybe he shouldn’t be, and logically it was kind of silly to be. He wasn’t _all_ scared, he was excited too! He couldn’t wait to see the world, see everything he had longed to see all these years studying. It was exciting, it was _so_ exciting, and he was near to vibrating at the very idea of finally venturing forth outside the city walls and experiencing it all for himself, with his own eyes. Reading the previous Azems’ reports had only done so much, and to see it-- ah, to see it! To live it, to know it! It was a dream come true.

The only thing was...the only thing was…

Well. It was the people he was leaving behind.

Hades, his beloved Hades-- well, Emet-Selch, actually, he’d been Emet-Selch for a decade or two now, and had even helped them choose his own appointment (and complained _severely_ about it, apparently) -- and of course Hythlodaeus, he’d miss both of them dearly and especially Hades, stuck here waiting for whenever he’d return and knowing the full extent of what he was up to...but then. But then there was also…

“Apollo!” Came a voice, and Azem winced. There was also his little brother. The reason he was so scared to leave. He turned and was already crouching, bracing himself to catch him in his arms when Artemis tackled him, burying his face in his chest. His red hair was long and fluffy, and lavender eyes behind white mask were wide and tearful. “Are you going today?”

Azem smiled. “Yeah, Artie, I’m going today,” he said, ruffling his hair and sighing. “I’ve got to, you know. I’m Azem now, so I gotta go do my job.”

“I know that!” Artemis huffed, cheeks pink. “I know you do. Azem’s duties are to travel the star and learn all there is to know about it and its people and all of that. I’m not a _baby_ , Apollo.” He wasn’t, either, though he had been near enough to one when he had been given into his elder brother’s care. No, by now he was in his middle years of schooling, and quite a bright youth in his own right. Azem was very proud of him. “I just…” 

He trailed off, and the stubborn young man he was becoming faded out of his expression, leaving only a child who had lost his parents, and been given into the care of a brother he had never met-- their ages were far enough apart, after all, for Apollo to have set out on his own long earlier, and their parents had been given special dispensation to be part of a research team outside Amaurot when Artemis was born. And he’d grown up there for some years, until...well. An accident had brought him home, and brought him to his brother. 

Apollo knew all this -- he’d been stunned into shock when he had come to pick up his parents belongings and what they’d left him only to find a little boy clutching a stuffed bird, teary and anxious; his little brother, he’d been told, and he’d fallen in love immediately -- and he knew what the problem was. “I’m going to come back, Artie. I promise. I would never leave you behind if I didn’t know for sure I’d come back.”

“I--” Artemis tried, swallowing, but looked down and away, tangling his hands together. “You _promise_ ,” he repeated. “You’ll come home? You’ll come home and let me _know_ you’re home, before you go away again. And you’ll tell me all your stories.”

Azem grinned. “Of course! I’ll come home and when I do, I’ll bring you all sorts of things I’ve picked up, and tell you about every single one of them. All of my adventures, all of the people I’ve met. I’ll be sure to tell you everything.” He leaned over to kiss Artemis’ forehead. “That I promise, upon all the stars in the heavens. I will come home, Artie. I’ll always come home. For you, my little brother, I’ll always come.”

“After all,” he added. “You’re my baby brother. I’ll always be there if you need me. Just call, and I’ll come running, no matter where I am. That’s another promise!” He smiled. “I’ll never be too busy for you. Even if I have to go away, all the way to the other side of the star, whenever you need me I’ll be there. So I’ll come home, and I’ll never leave you behind for good.” 

Artemis wiped at his eyes, and finally smiled. “Alright,” he said. “If you promise. I’ll try to be good so you won’t need to worry while you’re away! And I’ll keep an eye on Hythlodaeus, and I suppose Ha-- I mean, Emet-Selch will keep an eye on _me_ …” He laughed, still a little wetly. “We’ll be alright while you’re away,” he promised. “And I’ll call if I need you. Though-- only if I _really_ need you. So you can see, I can take care of myself while you’re gone!”

“I know you can, Artie,” Azem teased. “My brilliant baby brother.” He stood, patting him on the head again. “Now, I’d best be off before someone comes to chase me out of the city! Probably Halmarut, he seemed frightening...or Deudalaphon!”

Artemis pouted. “Don’t talk about the Convocation like that!” He protested. “They’re all amazing, and clever, and brilliant, and I’m sure they have only the best interests of the city at heart, and…”

“Artie,” Azem said, amused. “Artie, I’m _joking_.” He laughed. “And besides, I’m a convocant now too, so perhaps I’m allowed to tease them a little, mm?” He snorts. “That said, I really do have to get going…”

Artemis sighed. “Okay…” He said, but then perked up. “And you’ll let me show you what I’ve done when you get back?” He asked.

“Of course!” Azem replied, and gave his brother one last grin, as he turned to head out. “And I _will_ be back. Now...” He looked out at the gates in front of him, at the wide, wild star behind that, and grinned. “I suppose I should start my journey.”

So he’d go, and as he’d promised...he’d always come back. Never to be parted forever, not from his loved ones. Not from his beloved, his friends, his baby brother. 

He would always find his way home, he’d promised, and so it would be true.


	15. 15. ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ache [ eyk ]  
> verb (used without object)  
> >to have or suffer a continuous, dull pain  
> >to feel eager; yearn; long

**DAY 15: ACHE**

Of all the myriad rumors that circled around the man who currently carried the title of Lahabrea, Speaker and head researcher of Akadaemia Anyder, master of creation and foremost in the field of phantomology-- most of them were, admittedly, true. Or at least they bore some kernel of truth within them.

He might not actually be a-- a creation, or an automaton, or _whatever_ the awed and vaguely terrified students at the Akadaemia came up with, but he was certainly stern and no nonsense with them, leaving no room for error in those under him -- he would praise successes, certainly, but his standards were exacting. And really, in that case it was hard to imagine his students refraining from making up excuses and reasons for it to make themselves feel better.

Aside from that, though, he would have to concede that the rumors about his absence from the public eye outside his duties and the rumors about his habit of overwork were...mostly accurate. He detested taking time out of his work to, ugh, socialize. He saw little need for it; he was busy most of the time, and though he had something of a personal life, it was _personal_. He was too busy for joining in any social outings or whatever it was. And yes, that did mean he spent a little too much time in his offices, but considering how lax half the Convocation was _someone_ had to make up the slack.

He’d also admit that he did drink rather too much coffee and sleep rather too little, but those were no one’s business but his own and if there were rumors about them it was his own fault, and pointless to dispel.

However...however. There was one rumor that was both entirely incorrect...and one he never, never planned to give a correction for. 

It was quite a popular one, too: that Lahabrea was entirely uninterested in a relationship, to the point where he might well be a rock. Whether it be friends, casual partners, a dear friend and lover, or even a marriage with intentions for children-- Lahabrea did not wish for any of those, and had no interest or desire to even _consider_ considering them. It was a rather popular rumor, and he knew that it would never entirely fade unless he did something about it. 

But as much as he would perhaps _like_ that, in private and within his own thoughts...it was not to be. After all, the one that he would happily give his heart to belonged entirely to another. 

Usually, that was not a problem in the slightest. Most Amaurotines had several dear friends, several close to their heart in that manner. It was normal, accepted. _Marriage_ was reserved solely for the one you wished to have children with, for the purposes of the myriad sets of paperwork to fill out. It was not uncommon for a family to be a married couple and their children, and at _least_ two or three dear friends of the parents, the child or children’s aunts and uncles.

Really, it shouldn’t bother anyone. But...he did not wish to be _selfish_ about it. The two were so happy together, that he simply-- he simply couldn’t bear to involve himself. It would disrupt their perfect harmony, and as a creator he knew better than to do something like that. Such a perfect balance would be…it wouldn’t be right to tip the scales by placing himself in their orbit.

So he would sit, alone, watching Azem and Emet-Selch, and let himself ache. For as much as he wished it, it would simply not _be_.

Especially because...well. It would be easy if it were Azem, would it not? Everyone loved the Traveler, bright and outgoing and friendly. He was companionable and clever, and it would be easy to write it off as simply fondness for a man all were fond of, and who was fond of all. It would be easy. But it was not Azem.

No, fool that he was, he looked instead at the glowing star of the Underworld that was ever bound into the sun’s orbit. Emet-Selch, who had eyes for his sun, his hero, his Traveler, and him alone. 

It had not been immediate, no; he was older by a few centuries, and had initially not seen him as more than a nuisance, indolent and uncooperative, unpleasantly contrary and sharp tongued at times. At least Chief Architect Hythlodaeus had not been promoted, thank the stars above, but even so, their Emet-Selch was...aggravating.

Aggravating...yet brilliant in his own right, with a boundless and fierce compassion and love both for their city and the souls within it-- _especially_ the souls, as his devotion to his duties was absolute, his affection and care for the cycle of souls and the Underworld that was in his charge second to none. That sharp tongue of his, too, could soften in time, sing praises for his compeers (and him, to hear himself being praised was not unusual, but when Emet-Selch did so...) and debate so readily -- and in favor of Lahabrea’s own ideas so very often, as well. 

And then. And then they were to work together on a project. Or rather, it was another one of his great creations, and Emet-Selch had requested to be present, in order to prevent another incident as had happened before, where the act of creating inadvertently dragged a soul from the Underworld. Lahabrea had agreed -- such incidents were more trouble than they were worth, and not only did they cause harm to the soul in question, they did harm to his own creations as well, and he disliked that immensely -- and so it began, and ended, and the creature hung in the air in front of them, the last strands of aether spinning and twisting into place.

And then Emet-Selch had stepped forward to do his own duty, pulling the skein of the Underworld away as if drawing back curtains until the creation finished resolving and was safe, and...and Lahabrea watched him. Watched him reach up to cup the creature’s face, a smile on his lips and white hair drifting forth as the hood of his robes fell back, magic and aether drenching him in a shimmering, sparkling light that danced across his mask and skin. Magic he wielded deftly, the lights an aurora around him and creature both as the Underworld sparkled almost visibly with the weight of the last dregs of the creation’s aether still in the air

“Beautiful,” Emet-Selch crooned to it-- and it was, Lahabrea supposed. It was a cervine being, tall and delicate, with pure white fur and hooves and antlers both of shimmering, transparent crystal almost as fine as glass. Its antlers twisted high, twirling and curling into an intricate spiderweb of patterns, and its eyes were deepest blue -- the color his signature, when he felt sure enough to allow himself to mark his works. “Such a beautiful creature you are. Lovely as a winter’s day. Every bit of you so well thought out, made with such care. I can hardly allow anything to happen to you, can I? Beautiful thing you are, lovely ethereal hart. Proof of your creator’s brilliant mind, no doubt.” He rested his forehead upon its snout for a moment, before tilting his head to look at Lahabrea. “Is she not beautiful?” He asked him. “Another masterwork, my friend, you have once more outdone yourself. Worry not, I will make certain she is untouched until she settles; given the crystals in her design, I can see why you wished extra caution here.”

“....yes,” Lahabrea had managed, voice caught in his throat. “Beautiful.” Though in that moment, it was not the deer he spoke of. The sight before him -- man and beast, both pure white and glittering with the aether around them, the soft warmth in Emet-Selch’s eyes and the smile in his voice, the praise on his lips, it had-- well. _Well_. 

The city and everyone in it thought him uninterested -- and stars only knew _he_ did, too. But he was not. He was not, and yet thoughts of it were so far beyond his reach they might well hang in the sky like the stars themselves. How could he pursue the one he loved so dearly when doing so would disrupt such a perfect pair? It was selfish of him.

So he would sit, alone, watching him with a heaviness in his chest that never eased, a longing that he tried so valiantly to ignore, to push it aside and carry on with his duties. He was happy with Azem. It would be unfair of him to step in and upend that. As long as Emet-Selch would continue to smile at him from across the convocation’s meeting table, work with him on projects together, as long as they two were able to be compeers and equals-- that was more than enough.

It had to be, else this quiet pain in his chest would never _cease_.


	16. 16. lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucubration [ loo-kyoo-brey-shuhn ]  
> noun  
> >laborious work, study, thought, etc., especially at night.

**DAY 16: LUCUBRATION**

Lahabrea wasn’t actually sure, at the moment, what time it was.

His office and workshop had no windows -- fortunately, in his opinion -- and he had long since stopped bothering to keep clocks around, so...he was entirely unaware of whether or not it was day or night. He wasn’t even entirely certain when he had started working, or how long he had been doing so.

Not that he cared, in all honesty.

It didn’t matter what time it was, or how long he had been at work -- neither of those things came even close to any sort of importance, in his mind. Oh, no, what mattered was the work itself, and he would work endlessly, tirelessly, until he was finished. Whether that be one day or ten, he would not cease his efforts until his concept was complete. That was simply how he was, for good or ill. 

This concept was another large one, the sample matrices hovering over worktables full of blueprints and sketches, samples of other creatures and concepts borrowed from both the Architect’s offices and from the Words of Igeyorhm (hers was the zoology department, after all). Spread out over one wall were shimmering displays of differing birds’ wings, spread to reveal their structure and individual feather patterns, and another a rainbow of color swatches. The concept in question itself hung in bits and pieces over the central table, matrices creating a field in which he could adjust its parts as he willed it. Normally, he did not need such a detailed, intricate setup to do such things as create, but--- but when he was to produce another masterwork, the likes of Phoenix or Ifrita or many others, he put his all into it. 

He let out an exhale and turned to another workbench, retrieving the specifications he had requested from the aetherologists in Words of Altima on wind aspected beings and turning back to his concept. It was still unfinished, merely a mismatched set of wings and pieces of a body, one avian leg stretched out as if it was taking off to begin its flight. It shimmered indistinctly, it’s color still undecided -- though Lahabrea was leaning towards green, as it was a concept for a creature dedicated to wind aether, not simply another bird; a being such as Ifrita was for fire -- and the man hummed to himself, reaching to form a beak within the matrices’ field with a twist of his fingers. “...no, not that one,” he muttered, gesturing again and reshaping it, only for his frown to deepen. “Not that one, either.” Again, a third time, and he huffed in annoyance, dismissing it altogether and returning the papers to the workbench and bustling over to another, snatching up the zoological records and ruffling through them for the anatomical charts, muttering irritably to himself.

So engrossed was he that he did not hear the door to his workshop creak open, or notice anyone enter until his arm was tapped briefly, the newcomer clearing their throat. “Lahabrea, sir,” the girl said, sounding vaguely bemused. “Are you in there?”

Lahabrea jumped slightly, blinking at her, and yet it still took him a moment to register her presence. “Ah,” he said. “Cassandra.” He studied his assistant blankly, blinking and looking back at the workshop door-- right, yes, he had adjusted the aetherial lock to give her access after the last time he’d ended up locked in here for overlong and missed several Convocation meetings...wait. He blinked again. “...I haven’t missed anything again, have I?” 

Cassandra laughed. “Not yet,” she promised. “And I’ve been doing your paperwork for you again, you can thank me later.” He sighed and shook his head, amused, and she poked him again. “However, you have been holed up in here for going on two full weeks now, so I do believe you need a break.”

“No,” Lahabrea said stubbornly. “I am nowhere near finished yet. There’s still much to do, and I won’t leave this off half-finished. I--”

“--am forgetting what happened _last_ time you spent three weeks working without sleep,” Cassandra pointed out dryly, causing him to flinch at the memory of that embarrassment. “You really need to take a rest, Lahabrea. Look at it with new eyes after a nap, and maybe you’ll make a breakthrough on wherever you’re stuck.” She stepped to the side briefly, looking at the incomplete concept and back at the papers he was holding. “Hmm...don’t birds’ beaks vary based on what they eat?” She asked. “Maybe decide what it’s going to eat and work from there instead of picking the beak first?”

Lahabrea paused, looking at her again for a very long and quiet moment, and then smiled. “That is a fair point,” he admitted. “Perhaps I am...thinking less clearly than I ought to, after all.”

“I told you,” Cassandra scolded gently, tugging on his sleeve. “Come nap on the couch in your office. I won’t even make you go back to your apartments-- you can sleep here for a bit, I’ll keep an eye on things, and then you can get back to work.” She paused, smiling. “And speaking of keeping an eye on things, don’t worry. Thaleia is with her minder, I’ve been making sure that’s taken care of too.”

Lahabrea’s smile widened further at that, softening as he put the paperwork down and allowed himself to be led out of the workshop. “Thank you, Cassandra,” he said quietly. “Truly, you outdo yourself.”

She did, at that-- he had never actually _wanted_ an assistant, to be quite frank, and he had turned away all those that had applied for the position, and even more once he had been directed to at least give them probationary periods. Until, eventually, Cassandra. He had later discovered Emet-Selch had personally selected her, but by then he’d grown attached and brushed it off with vague fond annoyance. She had come to him very different from most, attentive and quick to learn with an eye for detail that had been rare among the other hopefuls; that coupled with the fact that she had yet to decide what her focus of studies was to be, and so was filled with a sort of curiosity for new concepts that most students had lost by their final years once they had chosen their fields, had endeared her to hm quickly. 

Well, that and her complete lack of fear in speaking her mind and scolding him, making sure he did those things he would otherwise write off as unnecessary. Annoying and frustrating at first, certainly, but..she had proven herself invaluable.

And more than that, he was... _fond_ of her.

As a man who did always forgo relationships, he had long known he was never meant to have children of his own; and for the longest time he had never _wanted_ any. But then he had been called to aid Azem in helping clean up after a small disaster in a faraway town...and a little blonde girl, nowhere near even half a century, had toddled up to him, tugging upon his robes and latching to his leg when she’d gotten his attention, refusing to let go and pleading in her faltering infant’s speech for someone not to leave her...well. _Well_.

Azem and Emet-Selch had aided him in the requisite paperwork, and Thaleia had owned his heart ever since. 

And then Cassandra had come along as well, and though at first she was merely his assistant, cheerful and sweet and invaluable, never taking any of his ‘nonsense’ and always eager to learn if she did not teach herself without being told to-- well, he would never dare to say so, given they were supervisor and assistant, but...he was certainly developing a bad habit of collecting daughters, wasn’t he?

“Go lie down,” Cassandra was saying, tugging him back to the present and pulling a neatly folded blanket from a shelf -- she’d Created it for him years ago, when he’d fallen asleep at his desk once, and it remained in his office for just that sort of occasion ever since -- and offering it to him. “Your paperwork’s up to date, like I said, and I already warned Emet-Selch you were off on another project, so he’ll probably let the Convocation know your workshop ate you.” She smiled. “I really can’t wait to see what it is when you’re finished,” she added. “It looks lovely already.”

Lahabrea smiled faintly again, taking the blanket. “I’m sure you do,” he told her, and then paused before reaching out to place his hand upon her head. “Again, Cassandra. Thank you for all that you do. As much as I am loathe to admit it...I would be quite lost without you.”

“You would,” Cassandra replied fondly, leaning into his touch. “I’m really glad to be here, you know. Thank you for keeping me.” She hummed to herself after a moment, ducking away from the hand to move to the desk again. “I’ll make you some coffee when you wake up, alright?” She said. “So go sleep.”

“Coffee?” Lahabrea asked, brightening. “You drive quite the hard bargain, but it seems I’ve been successfully coerced. I’ll...attempt to sleep, for at least a little while. And then it’s back to work.”

After all, he was nowhere near finished-- and...though he could be convinced to take a break, he would not stop until he was finished. That was certain.

After all, Lahabrea of the Convocation was never one to do anything by _halves_.


	17. 17. fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fade [ feyd ]  
> verb  
> >to lose freshness, vigor, strength, or health  
> >to disappear or die gradually (often followed by away or out)

**DAY 17: FADE**

The years passed, the eons spiraled on, and on his fire burned.

His fire burned, and burned, and burned him away.

Bit by bit, it burned, fragments of his self flaking off like ash and cinder; he was as Ifrita, as the Phoenix, as any of his once-great creations. A being of flame, consumed and consuming, and though at first he was aware that there would be naught left when he was through, he quickly decided he did not care, and kept burning.

His fault. His fault. _His fault_.

The voices whirled in his head every time he took pause, screaming self-recrimination and rage. His fault. His fault. His creation, his error, his failure. If he had worked harder, if he had made the right calculations if he had done this and that differently if he had just been better been smarter been more clever he would have made it right and none of this would have happened none of them would have died they wouldn’t have lost Elidibus _he wouldn’t have lost his daughters--_

For they were lost, lost to him, lost forever, gone and vanished and _dead_.

Thaleia lying beneath rubble, her blonde hair stained with dust as the beast roared above her with its many mouths, screaming into the fiery heavens---

Cassandra terrified and pale-faced and trembling, bolting away when he told her to run, vanishing into the chaos and vanishing from existence in the doing--

They were gone, they were gone, and he knew long ago that his baby girl’s soul was too small, too fragile to survive even before they saved their world.

So what reason had he for letting himself dwell on it? What reason had he for stopping? 

What reason had he for leaving some of himself to remain, when they had won? There was nothing left for him to live for. _No one_ left for him to live for.

Certainly Emet-Selch was still in the world, certainly there was that, but he had never belonged to him for all that he had held fondness for his fellow. And their paths pulled so far away from one another, orbits crashing out of tune with their differing methods -- his primals, the other’s empires -- that there was no point in considering it any longer.

So why bother holding back? Why bother pausing, why bother holding still? 

No. No, it mattered little. He mattered not at all. All that mattered was the return of their home, their people, the return of the world to what it should have always been. The righting of the failure he had carried out with his own bloodied hands.

So he would burn. He would throw himself upon the pyre and burn himself away for fuel, burn himself away to fuel his fight, fuel his forward momentum. Because it did not matter if he was there to live in their new world, as long as he saw it to fruition. 

Even if he burnt away, little by little. Even if he lost more and more each passing eon.

Even if with each vessel leapt into and leapt out of, he muddled himself more and more. Staining his soul with his recklessness, bits and pieces of others’ lives. Memories faded, others warped, and still he burned. As long as he knew why he fought, as long as he knew what they risked, as long as he knew who the enemy was, as long as he knew that it was fine. He didn’t care; let it burn away. It was easier.

The last body he took, it dug its claws into him harder than most-- that much he did notice, even so close to the end.

Was the city close to the sea one with white stone walls, or black towers? Who was it that scolded him for overwork, again? Who…

Which of those girls in his memory was his? Small and blonde, smiling so bright, which of them were his? The little one reaching out for him, the little one that had died, or the older one, fond and warm, holding his hand and walking away from one life into another? Who was his daughter, which of those was it?

As his candle burned its brightest, as it burned the last of its fuel...he found he could not even recall her name.

And then even that faded, and he could not recall why it was he was there, in the last moments. Why he fought, in the wake of that bright shimmering sword brought to bear by a false king of his own making. Nothing was left in the end, save guilt and grief and rage.

And then nothing was left at all.


	18. 18. panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panglossian [ pan-glos-ee-uhn, -glaw-see-, pang- ]  
> adjective  
> >characterized by or given to extreme optimism, especially in the face of unrelieved hardship or adversity.

**DAY 18: PANGLOSSIAN**

Despite the best efforts of the convocation, the news still began to spread. Rumors circulating about a sound, somewhere out in the furthest reaches of the star, a sound that could warp creation magic and call forth nightmares. Terrifying, really. The debate halls were full of discussion, students put their heads together to whisper in their free time, gossip abounded at homes and in smalltalk.

But one thing was certain, in everyone’s minds: it was fine.

Of course it was fine! All the nightmares and rumors came from the furthest reaches, nowhere near Amaurot. Who was to say they were real? And even if they were, they couldn’t possibly reach all the way here. It was all likely isolated incidents, after all. Nothing to worry about.

A ghost story to spook themselves silly, nothing more. Nothing to take seriously. And even then, they had no need to. The convocation would handle it, if it were anything to concern themselves with. They the population were perfectly safe, with such brave and wise stewards to lead and protect them. So it was just rumors, just gossip. 

Nothing at all to worry over. This was, after all, the best of all possible worlds, and in this world, all was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rare, wild end note appears!
> 
> Trivia facts: The term Panglossian originates from the novel _Candide_ by Voltaire, in which a Dr. Pangloss satirizes the contemporary philosophy of Leibnizian optimism. I highly recommend the novel, both because it is genuinely one of the few high school assigned reading books I bought willingly and reread several times, due to being very legitimately funny and thoughtful, and because the Amaurotine vibes are _strong_ in the concepts of their discussions of optimism in the face of repeated disasters.
> 
> Definitely take a look at it, or at least [its wiki page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candide) because it's got some A+ things to think on in regards to our beloved ancients.


	19. 19. where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Home is) where the heart is.  
> idiom.  
> >A place you feel connected to emotionally  
> >A place you are happy to arrive back at  
> >Somewhere you have fond memories of  
> >Being near your family and loved ones

**DAY 19: WHERE THE HEART IS**

For one that was a traveler, always on the move, home was a strange concept. Where _was_ home? Was it the place you returned to, when the journey was done? Was it one of the many places you encountered on your travels, that felt warm and right and safe? What sort of place was it, to call home?

Azem had thought about it a few times, or more than a few, over the centuries. 

In a way, yes, home was Amaurot-- it was where he had been born, where he had grown up. The towers and spires were as familiar to him as his own soul, soothing him and making him smile when he crested that final hill and saw them in the distance, the gates seeming ready to swing wide and and welcome him in. Amaurot was certainly a home, where he came to rest, where he returned, the lodestone he swung out and back into in the pendulum of his many journeys.

But though it was home...he wasn’t entirely sure he could call it _home,_ not in the same way the word was truly meant.

Even as it was familiar, even as he had grown up there...it didn’t feel-- he sometimes felt like a stranger in a strange land, coming back. Not recognizing things that he had missed, new places and new developments that he’d receive word of but that felt like they tilted hi world askew upon seeing them. He felt...not unwelcome, never unwelcome, but he always felt as if the gazes of the people upon him were wary, at times, uncertain-- he was an unknown factor, now and for always due to his frequent absences; the price of his position, the cost of being Azem.

No, when he thought of home...truly thought of _home_ , in all its deepest meanings...he knew what it was.

It was Emet-Selch, his dearest Hades, wrapping him in his arms and welcoming him home with a kiss, waking up the next morning with a warm bed and curled into a soft embrace, watching his lover sleep with his white hair spread across the pillow. It was Hythlodaeus, linking arms with him and laughing, grinning ear to ear as they put their matching red heads together for some mischief or other. It was the Convocants, his friends and compeers, arguing over something one moment and then laughing together, hands joined in concert, celebrating their achievements and creating something greater.

It was his brother, Artemis, Elidibus, his eyes alight with joy as he leapt into his arms to welcome him back, shining with wonder and adoration as he asked after his newest adventures, hungry for stories and knowledge both and full of pure simple delight to spend time with his family.

It was the people, _his_ people. That was where his heart and his soul lay, that was his home. The people he loved more than anything. That was where he would come home to, their arms and their smiles. No matter where they were or where he was, when he was with them...he was home. He always would be.

\---

Eons later, and a sundering away from what he had been…

Bran had thought he’d known what home was, when he was little. It was where you were born, where you grew up. Your ma and da, your family. The little house in the little town in La Noscea he’d grown up in. His mother’s flour-stained apron as she baked another eel pie their elderly neighbor, his father’s callused hands over his on a fishing rod. That was home. And no matter how far he ranged on his journeys when he became an adventurer, it was always to be home, where he could go back to no matter what.

And then came the Calamity, and then he was thrown five years forward...and he tried to go home, only to find it naught but ash and rubble. 

After that, he didn’t know. Did he have a home anymore? Maybe not. But that was alright. He had his friends, and he was a hero. Heroes sometimes didn’t have a place to call home, either. It was alright. It was something he could live without.

...in the end, no he couldn’t. But he still didn’t have an answer. It got even harder to find over the slow march of time, each new place never really feeling like home despite how long he spent there. The Fortemps Manor, Idyllshire, Rhalgr’s Reach, the Crystarium and Eulmore...even sometimes the Rising Stones didn’t feel like a home. He never settled, never felt like it was his _home_. He spent a lot of time in an inn room at the Forgotten Knight, and sometimes that felt most like _his_ , but it didn’t feel like his _home_. 

It didn’t help that he was the Warrior of Light, the Warrior of Darkness. No matter how much the people loved him, he knew it was...he knew he wasn’t part of their day to day lives. He knew he was separate from them. An outsider, even if he was a friend. He could watch them, help them, as much as he wanted, but in the end he’d move on. In the end he’d always have more important things to do, other people to save, and he’d have to leave. 

But there was a moment -- maybe, in retrospect, it was a moment he should have had a very long time ago, but he was never in a place for it until now -- when he finally, finally _knew_.

It was when they were waking up again, when he’d run to Dawn’s Respite and passed Krile the crystals, and stood there trembling until they had all sat up again. One after the other, they had risen, bleary-eyed and exhausted, and he’d known he was crying but hadn’t cared. 

It was when he’d run through the tower, footsteps echoing, and pressed that final crystal into the dozing hand of a red-haired Miqo’te, and he’d opened bleary red eyes to blink slowly once, twice, and then he’d broken into a tearful, awed smile as he sat up and said, in a slow and trembling voice _“It worked, Bran, it’s worked. I’m_ here _.”_

It was the first time he’d woken up in the morning with a warmth at his side (something that until that moment he’d never had before), and he’d rollen over still half asleep and vaguely bewildered only to remember who had come back to him, and seen Hades snoring softly, white hair a mess and sprawled across the other half of the bed like he had always belonged there.

It was then that he’d finally realized where home was, and where it had been all this time.

Thancred, Y’shtola, Urianger. The Leveilleur twins. Tataru, Krile. G’raha. _Hades_.

They were his family, the people he loved, the people who had been by his side through everything, through the ups and downs, people he’d lost and who had come back to him all the same. They were the people who would always be there at his side, and there when he returned, no matter where he returned to.

 _They_ were his home.

And somehow, deep, deep in his soul, he knew that was how it always was, and always should be. That home...home was the people he loved. Home was where he left his heart, and his heart was always with them.


	20. 20. free day 3 (moniker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moniker (or mon·ick·er) [ mon-i-ker ]  
> noun Slang.  
> >a person's name, especially a nickname or alias.

**DAY 20: FREE DAY (MONIKER)**

Lahabrea still, truly, was not certain what he was doing.

Azem had called him to aid in the cleanup of some disaster or other -- it had been a small village, and a spate of inclement weather (unusually strong for this time of year, he supposed, and he’d probably bring that knowledge with him back to Amaurot and Halmarut) had destroyed a fair chunk of it. Azem had arrived in the aftermath, and as was his wont he’d settled down to clear it up. He’d also of course called for aid, and thus was Lahabrea summoned, as well as Emet-Selch, Mitron, and Emmeroloth -- being the Overseers of the Underworld, Public Health, and Infrastructure respectively, they were the best choices to aid in the process, of course. 

He had wondered at his own summoning, but Azem had led him to the river just nearby, still swollen with the abundance of rain, and explained that they had sought a way to deal with this and any future weather that would cause it-- and who better to come up with something than the master of creation magics? It was a problem that had too many solutions for one specific convocant or another to deal with, therefore it was Lahabrea’s domain: to come up with one and see it to implementation.

So as the others worked -- Mitron tending to wounded, Emet-Selch beside him seeing those that passed on safely to the Underworld’s embrace, Emmerololth directing the rebuilding of the damaged houses, and Azem scurrying this way and that helping with whatever else was needed -- Lahabrea had sat down with a notepad and stylus (easier to wield in this place outside Amaurot than any concept matrices and other more complex tools) and begun sketching out plans and ideas to deal with their troubled river. Time had ceased to flow, and he had focused all his efforts upon his designs.

Until….until he had felt a little tug on his robes, and then another. And another, more insistent. 

After a few more, he had finally dragged his attentions away from his designs and blinked down at the source of the persistent annoyance, and...blinked again. 

There was a little girl there, a child, barely halfway through her first century, with large blue eyes, a mass of golden waves that flowed freely down her back, and a face reddened from crying. She tugged at his robes firmly once more now that she had his attention, and fisted her hands all the tighter in the cloth.

“Blue,” she declared, in the faltering voice of the very young. _“Blue.”_

Lahabrea blinked at her, feeling a queer sort of sensation in his chest as he set his notes aside to pick her up and put her on his lap in its place. “What is blue?” He asked her curiously, only for her to jab a pudgy finger at his chest, poking him insistently. 

“Blue!” She declared again, and tipped forward to press a sniffly face into the front of his robes now that they were accessible. Lahabrea swore he made a tiny little squeaking sound -- stars, how undignified! -- and then winced at the laugh from nearby, glancing over to see Emet-Selch watching him with a soft sort of bemusement.

“What?” He demanded, flustered, trying not to acknowledge that he had already rested a hand upon her small back. “I fail to see the amusement here.”

The other convocant shook his head. “She speaks of your soul, Lahabrea,” he said simply. “The little one must have enough of the sight to see it. That’s what she means by _blue_.” Lahabrea blinked, realizing that he was right; though most had the ability to parse souls, few had the ability to see them so clearly as to pick out colors. Nonetheless, it was not hard to discover the shade of one’s own soul-- and he had been long aware his own was the color of the sky itself, a pale, gentle blue.

“Alright, but what does that have to do with anything?” He muttered, slightly mollified by the answer but still not quite prepared to concede and cease his questions. 

Emet-Selch sighed. “Her parents perished in the incident,” he explained simply. “And I do recall sending a soul onwards to the Underworld a hue like to your own. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to assume that that was one of her parents, and so she seeks comfort in the warmth and familiarity of a similarly colored soul.”

“Oh,” Lahabrea said simply, and looked down at the little child in his lap, who had snuggled so very close to him, tiny shoulders trembling. Blue, she had said. She had seen his soul, and decided it was similar enough to her lost parents to be... _comforting_. To seek solace in him, a stranger, for that reason alone. Not knowing or caring of his reputation or his accolades, just simply because he and he alone reminded her of her parents.

She looked up at him, with her wide eyes, and smiled. “ _Blue_ ,” she said again, contentedly, and it was in that moment he knew he would like as not shift all the stars in the heavens themselves if only she were to ask it of him.

“Yes,” he said simply, running a hand through her hair. “Blue.” With a gesture, he cupped his hands together and crafted a simple toy, a little soft four-legged creature...its cloth the same shade of blue as his own soul. “Like this, see? Here, little one, for you.”

She had gasped in delight, then, catching the toy up in his arms and giggling, snuggling closer and humming happily, and-- oh stars, he’d thought, holding her absently. Oh, stars above.

Which had led him to this moment, where he still had no clue what he was doing, but-- he was doing it anyway.

He was sitting anxiously within the Bureau of the Secretariat, trying not to stand up again and pace back and forth as he had for the last several hours. The little girl -- _his_ little girl, who had told him her name was Thaleia -- sat beside him, contentedly playing with her little toys (he’d made her another, and she was bopping them together aimlessly as the very young were wont to do), wearing brand new robes and with her new mask slightly lopsided. 

He reached over to correct it just as Emet-Selch returned to him, Azem at his heels and carrying a small sheaf of paperwork. Upon seeing it, Lahabrea shot to his feet, holding his hands out hopefully. 

“Don’t worry,” Azem promised with a laugh as he took the papers. “We made sure you were approved. Everything is in order, and the certificate of adoption is at the bottom of the stack. She’s all yours, my friend.”

Lahabrea let out a sigh of relief he’d been holding for hours, and managed a smile. “Thank you, both of you,” he told them, tucking the paperwork away into his robes. “I owe you for this.”

“I’ll remember that next time something comes up I need to borrow a concept for,” Azem singsonged, and Emet-Selch groaned, amused. “But really, you’re welcome. I think you’ll both be good for each other.”

Lahabrea snorted to himself, moving to gather up Thaleia in his arms. “I did not ask for your opinion, Azem,” he said dryly. “But…we shall see.” That said, they departed.

They shall see indeed...he still had no idea what had possessed him to do something so utterly starstruck as to adopt a child. He worked, and nigh constantly at that, and had little time for other pursuits and little care for most of them, either. And yet...and yet this little girl had turned those big eyes on him, had turned to him for comfort without knowing him at all. Had trusted him immediately and implicitly, and-- 

And, stars help him, he was _lonely_. If this little one was to love him so instantly, so completely, than how in all the stars in the heavens could he turn her away? No, she was his now. His little one.

“Blue!” She chirped happily, tugging a little at the hair that poked out from the hood of his own robes, the same golden color as her own. She didn’t quite have the word for it, he supposed, so she had decided to indicate ‘same color’ the same as she had before.

“Yes, blue, my dear,” he told her. “But now that we are home, you must at least try to call me my title in public.” He’d like to attempt at some semblance of dignity, after all! “It is Lahabrea. Can you try to say that?”

The little one frowned faintly, wrinkling her little nose up, and then:

“...Papabrea?”

Oh, he thought faintly. Alright. He didn’t need dignity, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit _loose_ on the chosen word prompt, until the very end, but the cuteness is worth it. Truly, truly worth it.


	21. 21. foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> foible [ foi-buhl ]  
> noun  
> >a minor weakness or failing of character; slight flaw or defect

**DAY 21: FOIBLES**

When you live with someone for long enough, they become as known to you as you are to yourself, their soul as if it was your own. Perhaps it may be for good or ill, but it as if two become one, even when their souls are not so literally joined.

Even if, unfortunately, the one you love can on occasion drive you utterly _mad_.

Which was how Lohgrif was feeling at this particular moment, as they picked their way through the mazelike array of tanks of all sizes that scattered Mitron’s apartment. “Dearest, where _are_ you?” They called, voice a little irritably cheery. “Please tell me you did not bring one of your sharks home. _Again_.”

There was a yelp and a thump, and they resisted the urge to bury their face in their hands. “No!” Their partner’s voice called hurriedly, squeaking a little. “Nooo, no, no shark! Promise! Poor baby hated it in here anyway!” 

“That’s not…” Lohgrif tried, but then sighed, shaking his head and leaning against the couch. “Alright, no shark, then. So please tell me, oh light of my life, what are all these tanks for this time?”

Mitron’s head popped out from his bedchamber, grinning widely, pale blue hair wild and grin ear to ear. “I,” he declared brightly, “am testing a _theory_.”

“...oh?” Loghrif managed after a moment, finally failing to stifle their fond smile. “What sort of theory?”

The other man scrambled to his feet to exit his room properly, scooping up one of the tanks in his arms to reveal it full of bright crimson fish. “Aren’t they lovely?” He asked happily. “Beautiful dears, these are, such a vivid red. Right? Well!” He put the tank down reverently, scooping up another. The fish in this one were identical in appearance save for color-- these were a vibrant honey yellow. “I have these, and blue ones, and green ones, and pink and purple, too! Oh, and orange! Testing different shades of the same color would have been a little much, even I can admit that, but! I think a dozen or so colors is a good enough sampling, don’t you?” 

“I’d say so, yes, when the alternative is several hundred,” Loghrif said dryly, but bent down to look at another tank, one of the ones Mitron hadn’t pointed out. The fish in these were still identical to the rest, but this time their color was a mottled pattern of blue on yellow. “A color test?”

Mitron beamed. “In a way!” He said, nodding furiously, picking up a small tank with a set of pink and green fish. “See, take each solid-colored fish as representing a soul, and breeding them together as two individuals with differing soul colors-- it’s a test to see how traits such as that pass on to the children!.” He held out the tank to Lohgrif once more. “See how this one has more pink than green? But her sister has more green. And these two are nearly identical to their parents!” He beamed. “It will give us even more detailed knowledge on hereditary traits in regards to souls, and it will certainly come in handy treating any deficits in those newly born, if their parents passed something onto them that affects the soul they were given.”

Lohgrif blinked, and then smiled. “Truly, you always do have the people’s best interests at heart, love,” they said warmly, leaning into kiss his cheek. “Even when it manifests like...ah, like this.”

“Like what?” Mitron asked them innocently, placing the tank back down. “Ares, my sweet, you know you are the largest place in my heart no matter how many of my lovelies otherwise occupy it.” He laughed, leaning in to rest his arms on their shoulders and touch noses, letting fingers trail through long, pink hair. “They shall never dethrone you as my dearest one, promise.”

Loghrif just chuckled, shaking their head. “Sometimes I do worry,” he teased. “But no, I know. Together always, now and forever. You, me...and, of course, all of your little friends.”

“Little?” Mitron said with a grin. “Dear, you know I don’t just have _little_ ones.”

“Don’t remind me,” they grumbled fondly. “But come now, I did not come by just to listen to you go into raptures on your latest project.” They smiled, kissing the other briefly and stepping to the side, grabbing his hands to tug him forward. “I have my _own_ personal project to show you.”

“Oh!” Mitron gasped, and then grinned. “So secretive! Have you been playing with your little automata again? You must let me see, they’re so sweet! Just like you, really.”

They snorted, reddening. “Flatterer. Come along now, then, if you’d like to see,” they said, and the two picked their way back across the maze of fishtanks. “Just remember to return these to their homes before Halmarut or Lahabrea notices you’ve taken your work with you again. You know how they get.”

Mitron shuddered. “Last time Halmarut got so mad at me he made me help him clear out his _morbol pens_ ,” he whined unhappily. “It was awful…protect me, Ares!”

“From that? No, dear Posey, you’re on your own,” Lohgrif laughed. “Perhaps you could rope Nabriales or Fandaniel into helping, though? They’re always getting into enough trouble on their own, after all.”

The fond teasing continued as they left Mitron’s apartment, tugging their hoods up and replacing their masks as they did. None battered an eye as they passed, either -- it was Mitron and Lohgrif, after all, and the whole city knew they were as one. The Overseers of Public Welfare and Health, the caretakers of the city and its people, making sure all were safe and healthy.

Mitron and his fish, Lohgrif and their automatons-- certainly, they both had their quirks and habits, and grievances with one another, but…

Together, they were, and together they would stay. For now until the end of eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Yes, my reading of Loghrif (mostly due to what I could tell of their voice in 5.3) is nonbinary and they/them! They have not informed me anything beyond that and I don't think they intend to.


	22. 22. argy-bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> argy-bargy [ ahr-gee-bahr-gee ]  
> noun   
> >a vigorous discussion or dispute.

**DAY 22: ARGY-BARGY**

The day was coming to a close, and all those who worked in Amaurot were preparing to wrap up their tasks and depart for the eve. Putting up their concepts and their writings, returning creations to their cages and wrapping up their paperwork, and filing out of their halls and offices.

Anyder was no different; all those in the different departments -- Lahabrea’s, Mitron’s, Halmarut’s, Igeyorhm’s, and Altima’s, among all the lesser ones -- were heading out for the night, and among them was, of course, as always, Cassandra. Her supervisor was as per usual locked up in his office working again, but that did not mean she had to remain. In fact, she didn’t intend to. She was heading straight out the door today, with no stops, and heading right home. Absolutely.

There were no ulterior motives for this whatsoever.

Unfortunately for her, as she was leaving the department and making her way towards the Akadaemia lobby, she was stopped dead by the very last voice she wanted to hear. “Cassandra,” Lahabrea said, voice that very particular warning tone where she _knew_ she was in trouble, the sort of voice a parent was supposed to have (she thought; her own parents were busy to the point of forgetting she existed, most of the time, in their positions at the astronomy department). “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“...home?” She suggested hopefully, turning to smile at him while hoping he didn’t notice her edging further towards the hall. “It _is_ getting late, after all, and you’re well in hand for the evening…”

“Cassandra,” he repeated, and she knew she was caught. “Turn your pockets out.”

She gulped. “There’s nothing in them!” She protested. “I promise!” Noooo, no, she didn’t want to be _busted_. She’d been so close! Why was he even out of his office!

“Then you won’t mind me looking,” he said. “Turn them out, Cassandra.”

“Nooo…” She whined. “There’s nothing there, you don’t have to look, it’s fine!” Despite her protests, though, she was cornered, and there was nothing more to do as he approached with his eyes narrowed suspiciously behind his mask but sigh and give up, reluctantly rummaging in her robes gently and retrieving what she knew he’d already known she had.

The little fuzzy creature in her hands blinked as it hit the light again, chirruping and wiggling slightly, looking around curiously. It was a furry little mammal, four legged and with red fur and large floppy ears and a long bushy tail, soft and pudgy and with large eyes-- absolutely adorable. “Here,” she muttered, pouting in defeat. 

“Igeyorhm warned me you’d been by her department again,” Lahabrea said tiredly, taking the creature from her. “Is this the only kidnapping victim this time?”

Cassandra sighed. “Yeeeessss,” she said slowly, unhappy at her defeat. “He’s the only one this tiiiime.” 

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady,” Lahabrea scolded. “You know better by now. How many times have we _had_ this discussion? You are not permitted to take concepts or creations from the Akadaemia without express permission, and certainly not in order to keep them as _pets!”_

“But he’s so _cute!_ ” Cassandra protested. “They’re always so cute, and I want to keep them! It’s not fair that they have to just sit around in Igeyorhm’s department all day! They’re so lonely, and no one plays with them or names them or--!”

Lahabrea groaned. “They are not _pets_ , Cassandra,” he repeated. “They are creations, and property of the Words of Igeyorhm, and if they meet approval they will be released into the wild to join the ecosystem of this star. They are not meant to be _kept_.”

“Not even one?” She whined. “Just one? I was going to name him Stripey…”

“Surely you can come up with a better nickname than tha--- no!” Lahabrea managed, catching himself and shaking his head fiercely. “No, Cassandra, not even _one_.” He shook his head, sighing. “Stars...at least you only took _one_ this time.”

Cassandra pouted. “I’m still not sorry for trying to keep all of those _adorable_ little babies,” she said with a huff. “They were precious and sweet.”

“You tried to take _six infant penguins_ ,” Lahabrea said in a tired deadpan. “ _Six._ ”

“Yes, and they were all _perfect_ ,” Cassandra declared. She sighed, though, drooping. “Sorry for stealing from Igeyorhm again…” She mumbled. “I’ll apologize tomorrow.”

Lahabrea watched her for a moment, and sighed. “One of these days I will see about a request for something you may keep,” he promised her. “But _only_ if you cease your attempted thefts. Understood?”

“You--” Cassandra gasped, and then beamed at hm, darting forward to give him a brief hug. “I’m off duty right now so technically that was not rude,” she said hastily, and then smiled again. “Thank you, Lahabrea!”

“It is the least you have earned for all the hard work you’ve done for me over the years,” he told her, and patted her head gently. “Now run along home. I’ll return this to Igeyorhm and let her know you’ve apologized. I’ll see you early tomorrow.” 

“Yes, sir!” Cassandra said brightly, and took off, leaving Lahabrea alone with the little creature, who chirped again and wiggled out of his hands, winding itself around his neck.

He sighed tiredly, absently scratching his head as he turned to head back through his department towards the Words of Igeyorhm. “Really,” he muttered to it. “Little troublemaker, that one.” Always trying to steal off with some cute little creature or another. The hazards of someone so young works at the Akadaemia, he supposed. But in the end...in the end, she was still his assistant, and she meant a great deal to him.

So-- he could put up with it. Even if he did have to scold her every other day.


	23. 23. shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shuffle [ shuhf-uhl ]  
> verb (used with object)  
> >to mix (cards in a pack) so as to change the relative positions.

**DAY 23: SHUFFLE**

The sound of a deck of cards hitting the table startled Thancred out of his thoughts, and he blinked over at Bran, who had slid into the seat next to him. It was late, late enough that the rest of those in the Stones had gone to bed, and Thancred had found himself a spot at the bar to sit, decidedly _not_ sleeping. 

“Gil for your thoughts?” Bran asked with a slight grin, leaning against the counter and sliding the deck his direction. “I mean...you’ll get a few more than that from me, considering how terrible I am at cards, but hey. Better than staring at the liquor cabinet and contemplating how much you want to risk F’lhaminn strangling you in the morning.” 

Thancred snorted, accepting the deck and shuffling it absently, fingers moving with the deftness of an expert. “No, she would simply stare at me in _abject disappointment_ and shake her head, and that would be far crueler than any throttling would be,” he said, cutting the deck and shuffling it again -- needlessly, true, but it was a distraction from his thoughts. “No, the liquor remains safe from me these days, tempting as it might be.”

“Good,” Bran said with a laugh. “I think the poor tables have been through enough.”

Thancred made an offended noise and kicked Bran’s shin lightly, and the Warrior just grinned wider, drawing his hand when Thancred placed the deck down and took his own. “Really, though,” he said, quieter now. “You can talk to me, you know that. Worried about Ryne?”

“Not more than the usual,” Thancred replied lightly. “I know she can take care of herself, and she’s a wealth of people looking after her for me in my stead, yourself included. As much as I will always worry -- apparently that’s simply a father’s _duty_ , I’ve been told, to worry oneself into even more grey hairs than one already has -- I know she’ll be alright.” He paused and nudged Bran with his boot, pouting. “ _Hush_ , I know what you’re thinking.”

“That no one would be able to tell you have grey hairs, anyway?” Bran suggested with a stifled snicker, only for Thancred to roll his eyes and shake his head with a sigh. “Just stating the obvious, you know. And besides, don’t girls like dignified looking guys or something?”

Thancred huffed quietly. “They do,” he conceded. “But that would require me to be _interested_ , and it’s safe to say you know as well as I that particular ship has _long_ since sailed.” He shuffled his hand absently, placing two cards down and drawing another. “Really, though, it…” He glanced up, wincing slightly at the pointed expression on Bran’s face, and looked away again. “It is nothing that can be helped, at any rate,” he said finally. “It will pass eventually, I’m sure. It wouldn’t be the first time...”

“Wouldn't be the first time...what?” Bran asked, putting three cards down himself and then drawing more. He watched the other man a moment, taking in his appearance -- it was a bit surreal, to see him in the dark body armor he’d worn on the First, his white coat tossed over the back of his chair, and yet at the same time to see him with his scruffier appearance, black cloth still bound over his damaged eye. Like two entirely different versions of him had merged together, and... _oh_. Ohhh.

“Not used to being home yet?” He asked, and Thancred let out a sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Can’t get anything past you, now, can I?” He looked down at his hand again, glancing at the discard pile and exchanging one of his cards for one that Bran had just discarded, humming quietly to himself. “As I said. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to adjust to being home after a long time away, and there really isn’t anything to be done about it.”

Bran sighed, shaking his head and trading a card of his own out, discarding two more and drawing. “It’s been five years for you, Thancred, there’s no shame in feeling weird and out of place now that you’re back,” he pointed out. “Especially now that you have to get used to having one less eye again.”

“Yes, _that’s_ been unpleasant,” Thancred muttered. “Thankfully I’ve only walked into a wall twice, and no one witnessed it-- and you’ll _not_ tell Alisaie or Y’shtola it happened at all, are we clear?” He huffed at Bran’s snort, and then sighed. “It’s really not that bad, though; I’m in a far better place to adjust this time -- not being _bare arse naked in the wilderness,_ after all! -- and I’ve done it before, so…” 

Bran snorted. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you that embarrassment, at least,” he promised. “But really. Five years is a hells of a long time to be away from home. It’s alright if it feels weird.”

Thancred huffed quietly, discarding a card and drawing another. “I know, I know, I don’t need _fussing_ over, Bran,” he muttered, but then softened. “It is strange, I’ll admit that. I had almost forgotten what the Toll was like. What the Stones was like. I have to relearn the whole damned place. Tataru and the others act as if it was only a moon or two at most, and it--” He trailed off, chewing on his lip. “Perhaps the other are adjusting better, I don’t know. I think Y’shtola is a force of nature, unaffected by anything at all, and gods know Urianger doesn’t care so long as he has his books.” He paused. “In fact, Urianger seems far _better off_ than not, terrifyingly enough. I’d have half expected him to grab his cowl and creep back off to the Sands, and yet here he is... _not doing that_.”

“Yeah, it’s throwing me off, too,” Bran laughed. “But I’m glad he’s finally here with the rest of us.” He tapped the table next to the deck, indicating he was skipping this turn. “And the twins were only away for about a year, so it’s not as much of a problem for them, but…”

Thancred sighed. “It isn’t, but here I am, and...gods, it makes me feel _old,_ ” he muttered. “And I _despise_ that. Yet, again, there isn’t much I can do. I am home, and I will _be_ home, and one day it will actually begin to feel like home again.” That said, he sighed again and splayed his cards out on the table. “Four of a kind.”

“You can t _alk to me_ ,” Bran pointed out gently, bemused. “That’s what _I’m_ here for, idiot. Remember? Best friend privileges, I tell you my bullshit and you tell me yours, and we don’t tell anyone else.” They’d discussed that long ago, after he’d returned home the first time. Perhaps it was long past time to remind him. He grinned, though, laying his own hand out. “And you forgot to cheat, Thancred. Straight flush.”

Thancred groaned. “Really? It was _one time_...well, alright, one time in front of _you_. Will you ever let that go?” He paused, enough time to catch the look on Bran’s face, and sighed. “That is most assuredly a _no_. But…” He smiled slightly, reaching out to put his hand on top of Bran’s. “I’ll keep that in mind. It _has_ been a long time for me, you know.”

“I know,” Bran said, shifting his hand to take his friend’s and squeeze it. “That’s why I’m reminding you.” They had known each other for years, at this point-- since the day years ago when Bran had first arrived in Ul’dah, just in time to see a little girl orphaned, in time to meet her and Thancred and F’lhaminn, Nielle and the others. He’d known him longer and better than any of the other Scions. They’d both survived a great deal, both at some point given up their masks and their pretenses -- let themselves be as sharp-tongued and grouchy as they felt like, rather than pretending at otherwise no matter how they hurt -- and though they’d both healed from that, with time, neither of them were as they’d been when they met. 

And yet they both blamed themselves for far too much, he knew, and...and they’d _both_ lost someone dear to them, the same girl. A sister, a daughter, a close friend. So in the end, maybe he was the one person here who knew Thancred best of all, knew the things he’d never tell anyone else because he’d tell _Thancred_ those same things from him. He didn’t blame him if he’d forgotten, that half a decade with no one else to talk to. But he was home now, and they had each other again. (And had more in common now, since the other man had decided to hang up his daggers for a place in the front with him.)

“...thank you, Bran,” Thancred said after a moment, returning the squeeze and standing, grabbing his coat. “I think I’ve been sufficiently fussed over for the night. I might well be able to sleep properly, now.” He smiled quietly, looking out over the empty room. “...it is good to be home,” he said softly, tiredly. “It’s been too long.”

Bran grabbed the cards, sweeping them all up back into a loose deck, and stood with him. “It has,” he said. “Even for me. Welcome home. Go get some rest, now, before you turn into an insomniac again and Tataru has to slip you something.”

“Oh gods, no, don’t even _joke_ about that!” Thancred yelped. “I’ve escaped her horrors all this time, I don’t want it to start again!” He huffed and Bran laughed, earning himself a swat. 

Yeah, he thought, as they both headed off to their rooms for the night. He was glad his friends were all home. It...it _felt_ like home again, with them here. And he knew in time it would be home again for them, too.


	24. 24. beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beam [ beem ]  
> noun  
> >a radiant smile.  
> verb (used without object)  
> >to smile radiantly or happily.

**DAY 24: BEAM**

At least, Emet-Selch mused, the boughs of Rak’tika sheltered both the mortals who lived here and more importantly _himself_ from the rays of unending light. It was a small blessing, he supposed, considering he’d obligated himself to loiter around the pack of heroes at least for this leg of their journey.

Oh, he had certainly claimed boredom and wandered off, yes, but that did not mean he wasn’t still _watching_. 

After all...with _that_ soul...with that soul, he simply had to see what he’d do, that hero. That Warrior of Light. Would he bear the burden of light, would he see this path through to its end unharmed and prove himself worthy? Would he fall, like all the others before him, weak and diminished and broken? It was...he wanted to find out. 

For too long he’d waited for something like this, an opportunity like this, and even then he had never thought to see _his_ soul again, that sun-bright glow. But of course he would appear sooner or later. Of course he’d be a _hero_. He always had been, back then. He always did his damned best to help everyone, even when he didn’t need to. Even when it meant turning his back on them all and walking away. Emet-Selch knew the others had put him from their minds -- forgotten him, from either being sundered or the ravages their souls had gone through over the eons -- but...he could never. Pretend he had, perhaps, but he could never truly forget Azem.

This boy, though -- for he _was_ a boy, just barely a man by mortal count -- was...truly, he struggled to see the man he had once known in him. It was _irritating_. Certainly he did not expect _recognition_ from such a battered, damaged thing like mortals were, especially this one, whose incomplete wisp of a soul was even further damaged by stars only knew what, but...such a sharp tongue he had! Bristling with bitterness, dripping with spikes of harshness and annoyance, sarcastic and irritable-- how had such an unpleasant child become a Warrior of Light? Oh, he seemed civil with his companions, of course, but otherwise...what a contrary little brat he was. Rude and flippant all the while he was doing the things asked of him. At least he _did_ do them, those menial tasks Azem had always delighted in. But he certainly didn’t act like he liked it!

Not to mention the scars, nasty things all across his face that made him look far older than he was. Emet-Selch had never exactly disliked the look of scars, no, but so many of them on top of his attitude…he seemed more a half wild beast than a hero.

He was perched in a crook of some of the branches that made up the topmost tiers of Slitherbough, peering down at the little pieces of souls scurrying about hither and yon, doing whatever meaningless little tasks they had before them. It was tedious, and he was hoping that the little hero and his friends would get _on_ with it already. Was it truly so hard to translate some old tablets? Granted, he could help, but hmmm, no. It wouldn’t do to give them too much of an advantage. And besides, it would likely hurt their scholarly pride, for whatever value that was.

So in the meantime, here he was, and deeply considering taking a nap. It would pass the time, at the least, and he supposed any sort of commotion would wake him, and he’d know to follow the little group onwards.

However...however, his doze was startled into ceasing not by a commotion, but by the laughter of children. How odd, he thought, shaking the dregs of a dream -- memories, really, pointless and unnecessary considering how fragile _that_ child had turned out to be -- away and looking about for the source of it. It was obvious there would be children in the settlement, but to hear them laughing so was...a bit puzzling. They sounded like they were having such innocent fun that it almost...hm. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to go look.

Casting shadows about himself as easily as breathing, he went unseen by those mortals not gifted as he made his way towards the source of the laughter. There was a small knot of children, he found, tucked away in a corner, all sitting upon the ground giggling madly, leaning in excitedly with those of them whose faces were visible looking utterly rapt, spellbound by something he couldn’t at first hear, but as he approached, became clearer. And he blinked.

“...and then, poor Vivi ran around the corner-- and right into the snarling maw of the zaghnol!” The hero was saying, hands moving animatedly as he leaned in where he sat. “ _‘Oh no!’_ He said, which, you know, is a pretty reasonable thing to say. But Zidane and Freya were nowhere in sight! And even worse, the announcer had already spotted them, so now everyone watching knew he had found the zaghnol-- or, well, it had found him. So what was he to do?” He paused, just long enough for the children to nearly tip over, they were leaning in so attentively. “Well, fight it, of course,” he said with a laugh. “There was nowhere to run, and he had to try to be brave sometime! Fortunately, the announcer’s telling everyone where Vivi and the monster were had led the other competitors to his side, and they were able to defeat it well enough. Buuuut,” he added, “because Vivi was the one who found it...that meant he got the points! And, if you were keeping track, what does that mean?”

“Vivi won!” One of the children, a tiny little drahn, chirped. “He won the whole thing!”

Another child, this one a hume, frowned. “Aw,” she said. “Zidane won’t get to go on a date with the princess now…”

“Hey, don’t write them off yet,” the hero said with a grin. “But yes, Vivi won. Only, the celebrations didn’t last very long,” he added, and the children gasped, eyes widening as he lowered his voice. “After all, while the Festival was going on...Queen Brahne had struck again! This time she’d sent her forces to the city of Burmecia-- Freya’s hometown!” More gasps from the children, and the hero continued, telling them the story with the childish delight of someone who knew it by heart, who knew the characters and the tale as well as he knew that of his own life.

Emet-Selch hadn’t quite intended to stay and listen, but before he knew it, he was leaning against a wall nearby, arms crossed, unintentionally just as rapt as the children. Not that he didn’t know the story well -- the Majestic’s troupe had performed _The Princess and the Thief_ several times over the course of Solus’s rule, and he’d been rather fond of it, even if some of the plot had...well, _because_ some of the plot had almost seemed like it contained echoes of the memories of his people. And besides, the villain had quite the flair for the dramatic! It was simply…

It was the hero, the one he had been so unimpressed by. The half feral, unpleasant brat of a Warrior of Light seemed an entirely different person as he spun the tale, eyes alight as he told it, raising and lowering his voice for effect and weaving the story in a way that only one who loved it dearly could. He had never heard it told quite this way before, he had to admit. Each and every storyteller told their story their own way, putting a bit of themselves into the telling, and one could tell the sort of person they were from that: and this boy was...not what he had thought, it seemed.

When the hero got to Kuja’s debut in the ruins of Burmecia, though-- he paused, a moment, grey eyes flickering up to meet Emet-Selch’s own. Ah, yes, the Ascian thought; the boy is of course gifted. He’ll see him when none other would. He smiled thinly at the young hero, lifting a hand briefly. “Don’t mind me, hero,” he said dismissively. “Carry on.”

And then something happened he did not expect.

The boy laughed, then, and smiled at him-- and for a split second, one brief moment, he saw Azem in that smile. Wide and bright and beaming, like a shard of the sun itself had found its way into that expression. It changed the boy’s entire face, lighting it up and making him seem his own age, young and vibrant and shining despite the scars and the weariness writ upon him. He saw his Azem, then, in that little soul that had been familiar but sitting in an entirely unfamiliar and wrong skin. He blinked, and it did not vanish. That smile remained, those grey eyes alight with something like amusement and mischief, and he nodded briefly before returning to the story.

And as the boy spoke Kuja’s lines, Emet-Selch realized with a jolt he was mimicking his own tone and mannerisms. That _brat_ \--!

But...he couldn’t help the smile that had settled, albeit for the moment, on his own lips. Because in that moment, seeing the hero’s smile-- for a moment, he was home again. For a moment, he was someone else, someone he had held onto fiercely but no longer was all the same. Just a moment-- but a moment was more than he had been given in _eons_. Perhaps this one...perhaps there was hope in this one, after all.

And, he thought to himself, somewhat embarrassed...it seems he had been entirely wrong in his estimation of the hero. Prickly and unpleasant, to be sure, but...there was still a sun underneath those dark shadows, one that shone fierce and bright. A sun that-- that--

Well, if his cheeks were faintly pink for a few more moments, if he had to look away else it linger any longer than it already had, if for that first moment he had seen that smile his thoughts had screeched to a grinding halt encompassed only by a rather deafening internal _oh no_...no one but him would know about _that_. 

He was sure the hero couldn’t finish his tale before it was time to depart, but...he supposed he could linger, and listen, for...a little longer. It couldn’t hurt.


	25. 25. wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wish [ wish ]  
> verb (used with object)  
> >to want; desire; long for (usually followed by an infinitive or a clause):  
> >to desire (a person or thing) to be (as specified):  
> verb (used without object)  
> >to desire; long; yearn (often followed by for):

**DAY 25: WISH**

Azem had seen it from a distance, on a faraway hill overlooking Amaurot, and he had known he hadn’t been able to save his brother. He hadn’t been able to stop them. He’d been too late. 

But-- but even so, even knowing, even feeling the way the world shifted, feeling the aether ripple and spread out, feeling his brother’s soul in every breath he now took-- he took off running home all the same. He had to see. Had to know.

Had to talk to the others. How else could he-- Hades, he thought. _Hades_. 

It had near broken him to think of the prospect of sacrificing anyone, and he’d known well that none of them had wanted it to be Elidibus -- it had not been that which drove him away. It had been that they’d chosen to do it anyway, and so they had, and now...and now he had to catch a glimpse of the results. 

The city was still in ruins when he got there, thought the fires were out and the creatures were no more. Still in ruins, but safe. He should be happy, Azem thought, but at the same time a fear had clawed its way into his chest and settled there. He couldn’t explain it, but at the same time, it refused to go away. He knew he should accept this, be grateful for what they had done even if it hadn’t been what he’d wanted: it had worked, hadn’t it? Hadn’t it? He wasn’t convinced. He couldn’t be convinced. He’d go back out again, if he had to, still seeking the source of the Sound, but before he did...before he did he needed to see Hades one more time. Needed to make sure he was alright.

Wandering towards the capitol, it was voices that caught his attention first. Shouting, loud and animated. A debate? He blinked, and hurried all the more.

“--aren’t listening to us!” Came a voice, and Azem after a moment recognized it as Venat, one of the most skilled debaters in the city. “This is not a permanent solution! More must be done, and you seem to be _unaware_ of this fact! Why can’t you accept that your actions are not enough!”

Oh, Azem thought quietly, and turned a corner in time to see them standing at the doors of the Capitol, and...and there was Hades. Emet-Selch, there was, and Lahabrea, and he thought he saw Mitron and Lohgrif there too, perhaps Altima. He paused, then, and watched them, and the fear in his chest grew. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something wrong with them. On the surface they were exactly as he’d remembered, exactly as he knew them, but-- but-- oh, stars, there was something just... _off_. 

“Calm yourself, Venat,” Emet-Selch said softly, and again a shudder ran through Azem. There was something off about his voice, too-- too calm, too peaceful, too serene for one who had just sacrificed one of his own, their beloved Elidibus. “This is right. Lord Zodiark has saved us all. Everything is once more as it should be. There is no more reason to worry, no more reason to doubt. We are safe. We are alright. The only thing we must worry over is how to put right the state of our star, that is all. There is no more than that, not any longer. Not by His grace.”

 _Lord Zodiark_ …? His grace…? What in the stars were-- what was he talking about?! He began to shift forward, to move to argue with him, to try and find out what was wrong-- but then Lahabrea’s head swung in his direction, and two pairs of gold eyes met.

And Lahabrea did not know him. 

He looked upon Azem as if he were a stranger, no recognition in his eyes, not even acknowledgement-- and in turn, to Azem’s horror, those eyes were that of someone he did not recognize, either. There was something in them, deep in them, something dark and frightening and he stepped back and shuddered, pressing a hand to his mouth and feeling ill even as he reached for their souls, their aether, reached for Hades as if desperately trying to grasp for the man he loved dearly, trying to reassure himself he was alright. 

But...no. No, he was wrong, so very wrong. He had only to brush his soul against his beloved’s to know the horrid truth, brush against a deep, thick shroud of darkness that had not been there before, so entwined with that violet soul that he could not tell where one ended and the other began. It was warped, twisted, changed, and he could not think on it any longer-- instead, he turned and ran, ran all the way out of the city until he could run no more. And once there, he dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands and beginning to weep.

For he had discovered, now, the horrible truth of it--

When Elidibus had given up his life and his soul to save their star...he had taken the rest of the Convocation with him.

Whatever was left of them, they were no longer the people they once were. They were no longer anyone he recognized. Empty shells, filled with darkness. Bound to whatever they had done, unable to even see that they had been destroyed so completely. Elidibus had gone, his brother had gone, and he had taken everyone he had loved with him. They were all gone, now, and-- and he was grateful, in the end, that he had already said goodbye to Hades.

It had been his final goodbye, after all. For he had died, in the summoning, like all the rest. His Hades was gone...he would carry him in his heart until the end of days, like he had promised, but he was already gone. And worse, not gone to the cycle. Just...gone. 

He cried a little longer, then, and then stood and wiped away his tears, face set. He knew what he must do, now.

He would find the source of the Sound and destroy it, so whatever was left of his family could do no further harm-- so their false hopes would not be so false. So whatever they had done to save their world would not be for naught. Would mean something. So their sacrifices...so they would have given themselves up for a reason.

And...and if he wished, all the way to the bottom of his soul, that in the doing, Zodiark would no longer be needed, and it would give them all back….well, he would wish.

There was no harm in wishing, after all. 


	26. 26. when pigs fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when pigs fly  
> idiom  
> >something that will never happen  
> >impossible  
> >highly unlikely to happen

**DAY 26: WHEN PIGS FLY**

“...what, may I ask, is that?”

Azem grinned, draping over the shoulder of his best friend as he asked his question; Hythlodaeus didn’t even bat an eye, still bent over the half finished concept strewn about the workbench, only adjusted his position so that Azem could see better. 

“This,” the Chief Architect declared. “Is a _moguri_. Or it will be! I’ve been working on them for years now. What do you think?”

Azem studied the concept laid out before him, reaching out to poke at the images curiously. “It’s fat,” he said finally, amused. “And round. Did Hades put you up to that part? I know how he is with the ovine concepts in Igeyorm’s department and those kor-- ko-- the plant things. And he _did_ aid Lahabrea in the design for his bombs...”

“No, no, not at all,” Hythlodaeus chirped brightly. “Though admittedly I can his see where his fondness for the spherical comes from. Look at them!”

Azem nodded sagely “Yes, yes, I see. So...what mischief are you up to with them? You can’t be making something just because it’s cute, I know you too well for that.” He grinned, shifting to perch on the edge of the workbench, careful not to disturb anything. “Come on, tell me. Let me in on your master plan.”

Hythlodaeus just grinned wider, his good eye sparkling with good cheer -- his other had long ago been damaged when an early concept of his had come out slightly warped by mistake, and he’d decided to leave it as it was, mostly out of a sense of ‘the patch made him look mysterious’ even if no one could see it, though Azem suspected it was also a reminder to himself to be careful in the future -- as he shuffled his notes around, short red hair wild around his face. “Oh, but of course, Apollo, how could I neglect to allow you a little fun, too?” He said gleefully. “You’ll love it.”

He pulled out a sheet or two, smoothing them out to show Azem the initial concept sketches. “See, look, I was initially going for a more piglike design -- flying pigs, you know, didn’t you say that was some sort of metaphor in an area you visited? -- but then I thought, wouldn’t they be cuter with fluffier fur, and they kind of...evolved from that.”

“Ah, yes!” Azem said with a grin. “When pigs fly...a term for something unlikely or impossible, though I’ve heard several variations-- some use moles, some use cows, I’ve even heard one group of people use oliphant! So, your little impossible friends, what do they do?”

“Well,” Hythlodaeus said, pulling a concept matrix to himself to reveal a spell woven in it, sparkling with aether. “I’m giving them the ability to make themselves unseen, by twisting the aether around themselves. Someone like myself or Hades, gifted with the sight, could likely pick them out anyway, but otherwise...not likely.” He laughed. “You can of course see how this could be used for...well, a bit of fun.”

Azem snorted. “You’ll be chased about the city for hours for that one,” he teased. “Or made to clean out something utterly unpleasant in Words of Halmarut or Igeyorhm.”

“ _I’m_ not a Convocant, you have no direct power to reprimand meee~” Hythlodaeus sing-songed. “But aside from that, they’ll of course be able to fly, and have a little bit of talent for magics of their own, given they’ll need some ability to manipulate aether for their glamours…”

Azem blinked. “Stars, Hythlodaeus, you’re making minions for yourself!” He laughed, shaking his head. “A pack of little invisible, impossible terrors with a penchant for trickery...just like you, mm? I love them.” His eyes twinkled, leaning over the most recent designs. “Can I help?” He asked, grabbing a sketching pen. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Hythlodaeus said, tilting his head and sliding the notebook closer. “Have at it, then, don’t keep me in suspense!”

Azem nodded, and studied the sketches for a moment, before adding onto it with a couple firm, decisive flicks of the pen. “There,” he said triumphantly. “Perfect.”

Hythlodaeus blinked down at the sketch, tilting his head at the addition -- a single thin antenna sticking out from between the moguri’s little ears, tipped with a large, round puffball. “What made you think of that?” He asked curiously, reaching for the colored inks. “Not that I’m complaining! It really ties the whole thing together. But it’s certainly something!”

Azem shrugged. “It’s round,” he explained. “And it’s got that cute little round red nose. I thought it would match.” He paused, and leaned down to examine the sketch again. “They remind me of lures, or dandelions. Or both. I’m not really sure, it just...seemed to fit. Little round puffballs with their very own puffball on top!”

“Absolutely precious,” Hythlodaeus declared, coloring the ball in question red. “Perfect. You’ve done it, Apollo, you have made my creation the cutest thing on all of the star!” He grinned. “And _I’ll_ make it the most mischief prone.”

Azem just grinned. “I know you will, Hyth,” he said. “I hope I’m here to see it when you finish, and if not...I hope you’ll tell me all about it!”

“If I don’t, Hades certainly will!” Hythlodaeus said with a laugh, but then looked down at the designs. “Perhaps I’ll make one special for you,” he mused. “We’ll have to see. There’s a long way to go before these are ready, still…”

Azem patted him, straightening. “And you’re the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, my friend,” he said warmly. “You’ll do it. And again, I can’t wait to see them. They’ll be wonderful little terrors, I know it.”

“Absolutely!” Hythlodaeus said. “My impossible little flying pigs. Moles. Oliphants? Whatever they are, they’re my babies, that’s for sure. Please, look forward to it, Apollo. I’ll get them done in no time.”

That said, Azem departed, though not before taking one last look at the sketch of the moguri. Yes, he thought--- wonderful little terrors, just like their creator. He couldn’t wait to see them.


	27. 27. free day (youngling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> youngling [ yuhng-ling ]  
> noun  
> >a young person.  
> >anything young, as a young animal.

**DAY 27: FREE DAY (YOUNGLING)**

In a child’s eyes, anything can be whatever they want it to-- wooden horse can be noble steeds, tame house cats can be deadly foes, a bathtub can be the endless expanse of the ocean. For them, their imagination is limitless, and they can do and be whatever or whoever they please. It’s all a game, after all. For a child, anything is possible.

And in this case-- this particular child was on an adventure. Nay, a heroic quest! Just like the legendary heroes of his faerie tales, as all his adventures were.

For example, this time he was Cecil, the hero of the _Tale of the Paladin_ , and he and his loyal friends and companions were climbing the terrible Tower of Babil, to best the evil Dr. Lugae and take back the crystals of Light. 

Well...the Tower was a large tree just outside his village, and his companions were his small pack of stuffed animals, but that made it no less real! 

Bran giggled, wiggling his way up to the largest branch -- this was his favorite branch, wide enough to stand on and high up in the tree, bent at the perfect angle to stick his foot in the curve where it met the trunk and balance. This was his spot for many an adventure: not only was it the top of the Tower of Babil (and Zot, earlier in this particular adventure), but it was also the Iifa Tree, the Tower of Owen, Kefka’s tower…anywhere the heroes needed to climb, up and up and up. So up he’d go, too, to this perfect spot in the perfect tree. 

“C’mon, Rydia!” He chirped, picking up his battered stuffed carbuncle with his free hand, nudging it further up the branch’s length. “Rosa, Kain, n’ everyone! We gotta fight Dr. Lugae now!” His other hand clutched his sword, the shining blade of a paladin -- or rather, his favorite stick, one his da had sanded down and wrapped with cloth on one end for a grip. “An’ save th’ crystals, too!” He added. “So’s we can stop Z-- uh, I mean, _Golbez_ , whoops.” Sometimes it was too exciting, and he jumped ahead in the story a little! He liked poor Theodor too much, he figured, so it was easy to just forget and talk about Zemus when he wasn’t a thing until the very end of the tale. 

He edged forward himself, now, right to where the branch stopped being safe, and adjusted his weight, scooping up his plushes in one arm and brandishing his stick-sword at the air. “We gotcha now, Dr. Lugae!” He said brightly. “Yer gonna hafta face us! You an’ yer-- yer big dumb robit!”

A few more dramatic swipes of his stick, and he decided that they were properly defeated, and he shifted again. “Oh no!” He declared, the story having been long since memorized. “The tower’s still gonna fire the cannons at the dwarves! We gotta go stop ‘em!”

He slid back down to the tree trunk and swung onto the smaller branch above him, balanced sitting on it precariously and fussing with his stuffed animals briefly to grab one of them, a stuffed coeurl. 

“Oh no, Yang, ye can’t!” He said, waving the coeurl around a bit. “Yer not gonna sacrifice yerself, what about yer wife! Noo!” With that bit of dramatics out of the way, he tossed the coeurl plush out of the tree, carefully making sure it landed on a soft spot of grass below before making some cheery explosive sound effects. 

He paused a moment, trying to remember the next bit, and then giggled, nodding to himself as he slid off the smaller branch back to the lower one. “Nooo, not you too, Cap’n Pollendina!” He said, grabbing his stuffed goblin. “Ye can’t, we jus’ lost Yang!” He made a few more explosion noises, and dropped the goblin to join the coeurl. “Nooo!”

A pause, and he giggled. “Now we gotta go back t’Baron,” he declared. “Fer th’ ones what sac-- scari-- _sacrificed_ ‘emselves t’get us there!” That said, he jumped out of the tree, landing halfway decently on the ground below with a bit of a roll, and bounced upright again, scurrying over to grab his fallen comrades. “Don’ worry Cap’n, Yang. Yer okay,” he promised them. “So’s Palom an’ Porom an’ Edward. Everyone’ll come back t’help at the very end. Cause that’s what heroes do, y’know? They always come back!”

He nodded sagely to himself, taking off at a trot towards the village well, which he’d already decided was Baron Castle -- it was a lot of castles, because it was a nice big well. No one had fallen in yet, either! “Heroes always come back,” he comforted his plushes. “Maybe some of ‘em don’t, like-- like Granpa in _Th’ Wanderer’s Tale_ wi’ Bartz, or-- or Tellah, or Doc del Norte in _Th’ Tale of th’ Esper_ , or-- or th’ story _says_ Vivi, in _Th’ Princess an’ th’ Thief_ , but that’s dumb, so’s I don’t like that endin’. Some don’ come back, but most of ‘em do! Like al o’ye, an’ Zidane at the end, an’-- an’ in _Esper_ , when everyone gets split up after Kefka blows everythin’ up, but they all find each other again! I mean,” he added with a giggle. “If _Quina_ can keep comin’ back, then everyone can, righ’?” 

He put the pile of plushies down beside the well, and lined the remaining heroes up on the edge of it-- his carbuncle, his little dragon, his stuffed bird, and he wasn’t sure what the soft red one was but the lady at the market when Ma had bought it said it was _Doman_ , an’ that’s where Edge was supposed to be from, so he’d got it and named it Edge anyway. “So don’ worry, all o’ye,” he promised them. “Everyone’s gonna come back, an’ help, an’ ye get yer happy endin’. Cause heroes always get happy endin’s. That’s why they’re heroes! So they fight the bad guys and protect th’ people what need protectin’, an’ save th’ world, an’ then they all go home an’ have a happy endin’. ‘Cause happy endin’s are what us heroes fight for!” 

He hopped up himself on the edge of the well, holding his stick-sword out triumphantly as if making a vow. “I’m gonna be a hero one day!” He told his plushes, his other hand on his hip. “Me, Bran Quirke, hero ‘o all Eorzea! I’ll protect everyone from th’ Empire an’ th’ beastmen an’ make sure everyone’s happy forever! An’ me an’ all my friends -- ‘cause _o’course_ I’m gonna have some -- will get to go home ourselves an’ have _our_ happy endin’s. Innit perfect?”

He waved his stick about. “Take that! An’ that!” He declared. “An’ that! For Eorzea! For ma and da an’ all th’ friends I’m gonna make! For, uh-- happy endin’s for everyone! Cause I’m Bran Quirke, hero, an’ I’ll kick any bad guy’s arse!” He dissolved into giggles, at that, sliding off the well to sit on the ground against it, looking over at his plushies. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted. But it’s okay! I know th’ story by heart anyway, I didn’t lose my place!” He hopped to his feet. “So c’mon! We’re at Baron Castle, an’ we gotta go t’Eblan an’ meet Edge now!” He picked up the red plushie, waving it a little. “Let’s go!” He gathered up all the others and took off again, adventure in mind and story on his lips as he sung it aloud brightly, telling it to himself as he acted it out with all the enthusiastic cheer of the child that he was, dreaming of one day joining the heroes he adored as one of their number.

A hero, a Warrior of Light-- he’d be one, one day, he swore that much almost every day. To be the people’s savior, to protect their smiles and give them all a happy ending-- that’s what he wanted, more than anything else. What he dreamed of, what he hoped for. 

And one day he’d get that wish, even if it wouldn’t be how he’d thought it would-- but even so, he’d get his wish, and he’d be that hero...but for now, he was just a child, a child with big dreams, and a hope that burned bright and strong in his sun-bright little soul.


	28. 28. irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> irenic [ ahy-ren-ik, ahy-ree-nik ]  
> adjective  
> >tending to promote peace or reconciliation; peaceful or conciliatory.

**DAY 28: IRENIC**

The rift was a quiet place. Empty, echoing, silent as a tomb. Rippling darkness as far as the eye could see, as far as the soul could stretch out its senses. There was nothing, utterly nothing save for fragments of crystalline stone and twisting, churning aether. Nothing, and nothing had been their home for...some time, now. Though Emet-Selch had not been there with much frequency, spending his time anywhere _but,_ save for when he took his rest. He did not like to come there. 

But this day, as his feet landed silently upon stone -- he had not been summoned, but he had naught else to do (as between vessel and lives as he was) so he had taken a moment to slip to the rift and check on things -- there was noise. Shouting, a lot of it. Breaking the silence that was the rift with its ferocity, and startling Emet-Selch into silence before he had even spoken. Brow furrowing beneath mask, he moved towards the noise. What in the stars’ name…?

Ah, he thought, as the cluster of souls came into view, all cloaked and shaped to resemble themselves as close as they could recall -- some could not, their sundered brethren keeping their hoods up and masks on to hide that they could only remember pieces of their true appearances (Igeyorhm’s hair color, Deudalephon’s glasses, Mitron’s eyes ), and for himself, it was simply because it hurt too much to think of being looked upon as a stranger by those who only retained fragments of their memories, hurt more to think of the eventuality that one day the only two who were whole would join them in it -- in lieu of their physical forms. Of course.

“--no _idea_ what you’re talking about!” Lahabrea snarled, gesturing wildly. “Ridiculous, foolish and wasteful, that would never work!” Emet-Selch winced at the other Ascian’s temper; ah, it had only grown worse over the years, sending a once only mildly irritable man into red-hot displays of outrage, a fire slowly increasing in size and ferocity. One day he would burn himself to naught; maybe not now, maybe not for eons yet, but Emet-Selch knew it would happen, and it ached to think of it. He had been beautiful once, a sparkling hearth, a blazing forge of passion and creativity -- but now he was naught but an inferno, a wildfire. Still bright and beautiful, yet...yet...not what he once was.

Stars, he missed him. He missed him as much as he missed-- as he missed--

He shook his head, focusing on the argument again as Altima snarled back. “I know what I am doing, Speaker!” She hissed. “Do not condescend! I still have enough, and my plan is sound! We will achieve our Rejoining, this third one will work _as I have conceived!”_

“It will not!” Lahabrea growled. “It will _not!_ Your work is clumsy at best, and the concept is ill-conceived, and to use _fire aether_ in such a way--!”

The other Ascians stood clustered about them, wary and uncertain, both curious as to the fight and afraid to step in-- it was Igeyorhm who caught his eye, then, her shoulders sagging in relief. “Emet-Selch,” she said gratefully. “You have come. Perhaps you could--?”

“I have had my quarrels with both of them before,” he reminded his sundered sister. “And I do not think I could stop them if I tried. They are both forces of nature in debates, after all.” He never minded much speaking in this way -- not yet, anyway, thought he looked at the eternity ahead of them and feared what he could become, should he let himself slip -- and reminding the others of what they had lost, the things they should have known. Igeyorhm blinked at that, and then nodded, twining her hands together quietly. 

“I see,” she said, and then winced as the argument increased in volume. “...and yet, it should be dealt with before it comes to blows,” she murmured. “ _Or_ before it bleeds towards the rest of us.”

Nabriales groaned. “It had better not,” he muttered irritably, crossing his arms ever the tighter; Emet-Selch did not know what situation Lahabrea had raised this shard of their brother up from, but it had left him bitter and sarcastic rather than the cheerful mischief-maker he had once been, and it was a sorry sight. But there was naught to do but fix it all, was there? Once they restored their world, their brethren, all would be as it should be, and so would they.

“Lahabrea…?” Mitron tried nervously -- he was a rather newly restored shard of himself, this one, and clung close to Lohgrif (who was on his second shard, the first having been lost near to the second Rejoining) for the moment, and he bit his lip quietly. “Altima? Perhaps...perhaps maybe you could...” He trailed off, though, drowned out in the shouting, and subsided.

Emet-Selch sighed, slipping past the knot of sundered towards his companion and the argument -- debates such as those in the Hall of Rhetoric were long since gone, in the end, weren’t they, and now all they had was screaming matches, everything they once were falling bit by bit along the wayside, shedding their old selves as they marched forward towards their goals, becoming what they must to save their people and their world -- and clearing his throat, but before he could speak, another voice carried itself towards them, soft but audible nonetheless. Perhaps too audible, as the very tone caused silence in the rest of them.

“What is going on here?” Elidibus asked, joining them upon the fragment of stone they all stood upon. He was hooded and masked as the rest of them, and Emet-Selch had to look away, peering at their Emissary only out of the corner of his eye. It was...difficult to look at him, what he was now. His soul no longer a _soul_ , but looking as if a hole was punched out of reality itself, blackness deeper than anything else he had ever known. He would get used to it in time, as he grew used to all of the other changes taking place, as they became normal to him, to all of them, but for now, it was...painful. “Lahabrea, Altima, explain yourselves.”

They both started shouting again, voices twining together into a cacophony, but he held up a hand, and they quieted. “One at a time,” he said softly. “Altima. Speak first.”

As they spoke, Emet-Selch reflected, watching their Emissary listen quietly, still as a stone. It was so far removed from the boy they had known, their little brother, their sacrifice. Their best beloved. So quiet, so soft and silent. Like a statue carved out of aether again and given life, when he had never been meant to live again -- not until their goal was reached, at least.

He still remembered when he had returned to them -- a thick pool of coagulated, viscous aether drooping and puddling upon the ground, rising and coalescing into a figure that was meant to be a man, in the way creatures attempted to mimic humanity, or what they thought it might be, without understanding the way human bodies worked. A figure black and dripping, smiling something that could only be called a smile if you were generous, eyes simply flickering orbs of light. But it had spoken in Elidibus’ voice, and slowly, slowly it had seemed to recall its own appearance, ichor dripping away to allow white robes and red mask to reappear. Emet-Selch had not seen him with either hood or mask off since -- sometimes he wondered if there was anything at all beneath them, any longer. 

But it did not matter. They would put it to rights with all the rest. Once they had completed their goal, surely...surely Lord Zodiark would return their little brother to them properly? He would have power enough to do so. But until then...this is what they had.

“I see,” Elidibus murmured, once both sides had spoken up and explained their cases, nodding quietly to himself. “...Lahabrea, accompany Altima back to the Second. Aid her in her plan. Should there be any errors, you have leave to correct them. But it is her plan-- _aid_ her, do not take over. Her theories seem sound enough, and...and it is workable, I believe, but fire has always been your affinity. See to it that her plans come to fruition, and give us another piece of our home back. Set us one step closer to salvation.”

That said, he tilted his head to wait and listen-- and Emet-Selch alone, he thought, had noticed the brief hesitation. He, too, was not complete. He had not been returned to them whole, and it seemed there were more things being lost along the way. 

Was he truly the only one who remained unharmed…? It ached. But...he could not now give himself up as well, if that were the case. 

“...very well,” Lahabrea acquiesced with a nod, temper subsiding. “I will accompany her, and we will see Zodiark’s will done.” He glanced at Altima, who also nodded.

“Agreed,” she said simply. “Your aid and wisdom will be appreciated, Lahabrea. We may leave whenever you are prepared.”

The conversations struck back up, then, once the argument had settled, and Emet-Selch stepped away silently to watch as Elidibus took his leave. A far cry from what he once was, perhaps, and a broken mirror of the boy that had given himself to save them. But..there were things that remained, he thought, as he saw the briefest of smiles cross the Emissary’s face, things that would always remain.

He would always love them, their Elidibus. Always wish for them to love each other. He was their Emissary, their mediator. And he would always do what he would to keep that, keep them safe, keep them happy. Always seek the reconciliation that he had returned to them in order to maintain, as he once had desired nothing more than for his compeers to be happy.

And maybe at the least, Emet-Selch could take comfort in that. 

For now, at any rate. But... _for now_ was enough, at the moment. _For now_ was all he could hope for.


	29. 29. paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paternal [ puh-tur-nl ]  
> adjective  
> >characteristic of or befitting a father; fatherly  
> >of or relating to a father

**DAY 29: PATERNAL**

Living this life as the Garlean emperor was...well, there was nothing special about it, in the grand scheme of things. Another life as another ruler, building his empires and preparing the Source for another Rejoining. The conflicts were myriad, so far, but small-- eventually they would move to a larger stage, of course, and move forward in larger steps, but for the moment, it was in its beginning stages of conquest. 

This was a time, after the beginning and before the climax, where...well, there was not quite as much to do. As _emperor_ , at least. 

As a father, on the other hand...there was far more.

It was not the first time he had been a father, over the eons. Oh, he had fathered a great many children over the years in all his guises. It had hurt in a distant sort of way, seeing those fragile and fragmented existences come into being, all fleeting and broken and incomplete, doomed to live and die like sparks, come and gone too quickly--- but even so, he brought them into this world all the same, and each time...each time he would find some reason to hope. Perhaps he searched too hard for things that simply were not there, and never would be, but even so, with each newborn he held in his arms there had always been something...something that he told himself would make this one different.

Or maybe it was simply just..part of being a father no matter what-- that there was a reason to love them, no matter how unworthy or broken, because they were his? He couldn’t say.

Avilius yae Galvus was no different. At thirteen summers, he was already far taller and broader than his peers of the same age, and the sturdiness of his physical form was perhaps why he had decided to hope, this time around. Or at least, it had been the _only_ reason at first, before he had grown. Now that he was older, he had proven himself to be...well, he had the makings of a decent ruler, should Solus pass his throne on one day. More than decent: it was almost a shame, Emet-Selch thought. Avilius perhaps deserved a better empire than one built solely for the sake of ushering in the Rejoinings. Yet once it had served its purpose, perhaps...he could give up his role as Emperor and move on, and Avilius could aid in its rebuilding after the Calamity, were there aught to rebuild.

But those were idle thoughts, indeed. For the moment, though, he was but a child, a broken little thing of so few years -- mortals came of age so much faster than his people, didn’t they, yet they stayed young for so much longer -- and for the moment, in this time of little happening, he was simply Solus zos Galvus, a father.

“Papa, come on!” The young voice jolted him out of his musings, and he blinked, looking down at the child who was tugging on his arm aggressively. “We’ll miss the show!”

Solus paused, and then chuckled, sweeping the boy into his arms -- he couldn’t do this for much longer, he knew, as the moment Avilius hit his growth spurt he’d be far too big to carry (he was already pushing it even now, really) -- and shaking his head. “No, no, don’t worry, my boy, we’ll be right on time. The troupe knows my habits well by now, I’d think.”

“It’s too bad Mama couldn’t come,” Avilius mused as they continued on. “But I guess she can’t. Titus is still a baby, after all, she’s got to keep an eye on him.”

“She’ll come next time, perhaps,” Solus said with a shrug, and then had to stop and put his son down. “Alright, I do believe you are getting too big for that now,” he complained, rubbing his back and smiling, laughing and shaking his head at the boy’s pout. “Don’t pout like that, my poor back is simply not up to it.” 

“Aww,” Avilius whined, but then -- as children are wont to do -- he took off again, pausing at the doors to their private box and rocking on the balls of his feet. “What play is this today?” He asked as his father joined him. 

“It’s _The Princess and the Thief_ ,” Solus told him with a laugh, leading him in and getting them settled. “I believe it’s by the same playwright as _I Want to Be Your Canary-- yes,_ the romantic one you didn’t like, but I promise this one is far more fun.” He laughed at his son’s expression. “ _This_ one is an adventure story. One of those with heroes and villains and epic battles and the like.”

Avilius lit up at that. “Like _Tale of the Esper_?” He asked excitedly, and then brightened further at his father’s nod. “Oh, wonderful! I very much liked that one! I liked Edgar best, I hope Titus and I get along like him and his brother when he is older.”

“That would be nice,” Solus agreed. “But look at it this way, you two won’t have to flip a coin for anything, considering you’re not twins.”

Avilius giggled. “We would not!” He said happily. “Which is a good thing. I am certainly glad for that, I would not want to fight my brother.” He settled into the seat and went quiet, though, eyes going wide with fascination as the play began. Solus, for his part, had seen the play before many times, and though he loved it as one of his favorites, this time he sat back quietly to watch his son instead. To see him leaning forward, gasping in awe and excitement, clapping at the victories and yelping in fright at the defeats, jumping in his seat as tension would build and at several points all but leaping out of his seat to lean over the balcony.

Eventually, though, the play ended, and Avilius sat back in his seat, wiping a little at his eyes and grinning widely. “I think I liked that one best of all so far,” he declared. “It was amazing, Papa! Zidane, and-- and Garnet, she was wonderful, I loved her very much, and _Vivi_ \--” He sniffled a little, but smiled at his father, who smiled back. “Would you tell the maestro it was my favorite?”

“You can tell him yourself, if you like,” Solus said, standing and offering his hand. “But wasn’t it lovely? It’s my favorite, too.” he paused, then, and tilted his head slightly as they moved to the hall that led down to backstage. “What did you think of Kuja, then?”

Avilius hummed in thought. “I liked him better than Kefka,” he said simply, and then shrugged. “I felt bad for him, in the end. He was kind of just a scared kid, right? I’m glad Zidane went back for him! He did help, right? When everyone needed help at the end, he came and healed them! I think that’s a good thing, do you think he got to come back with his brother?”

“What do you think?” Solus asked. “If you were Queen Garnet, would you allow him to return without comment, after all the mischief he’d gotten up to?”

Avilius looked thoughtful, and then nodded. “Mmm, I think so! He’d have to do a lot to make up for all of it, but she _did_ get to go find out about Terra and him and Zidane, so it’s not like she doesn’t know why or think he didn’t have any reasons. And he did help save them! So...he could help rebuild Alexandria and Lindblum! It was his fault they got damaged, right? If he helped put it back together, that’s a start, especially if he’s really sorry.” He shrugged. “I’d be alright with it, if I were Garnet. He wasn’t a _Kefka_ bad guy, after all.”

“Ha!” Solus laughed. “No, he certainly wasn’t.” He shook his head. “And Terra? What did you think of that?”

Avilius pouted. “I thought it was sad!” He declared. “I’m glad all the genomes get to be okay in the end, but it was really sad that a whole planet had to go away like that. Even if their guardian was doing bad stuff to fix it, it was still _sad_.”

“It was,” Solus agreed, ruffling his son’s hair briefly. “I always thought so, too.” he reached out, then, to take his son’s hand. “Now come, come, let us go see the actors. Perhaps you can tell them what a good job they did! And later, why don’t you tell your mother the story, since she was unable to come with us?”

Avilius nodded frantically, grinning, and bolted a bit ahead, allowing his father to trail behind and think-- allow _Emet-Selch_ to think, unhindered by his role as Solus, for a moment.

He had always been fond of that particular story, he supposed, for its similarities to his own situation, that of the Ascians. Of course, as it was written by a mere mortal, they were portrayed as the villains, but-- that even a fragment of their story remained told (he wondered which of their sundered brethren passed it on to the playwright, really) was a comfort. And so...it was, again, a comfort that his child seemed to find the sorrow in it. 

Perhaps he could never understand, broken little thing that he was, still in need of fixing like the rest of these incomplete, diminished fragments, but it was still a comfort to know at least one mortal, at least one life, felt pity for their plight. Perhaps, he wondered idly, one day he could reveal to him the truth, and have his aid. Perhaps it would all be well, this time. This time, it could be different.

A fool’s hope, really, he knew that well, but what else did he have left to him but hope? Hope, and the goal they fought endlessly to achieve. He would give everything for his cause, for his people, for his _world_. He knew that. No mortal’s live would be enough to sway him, for they were not...they needed to be made whole once more. But…

But he could still hope, with all that was left to him. And he could hope that these mortals would one day understand, and fight _with_ them rather than against them. And perhaps he could hope that it would begin with his son. His boy.

For despite himself, despite everything...he loved him.


	30. 30. splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> splinter [ splin-ter ]  
> noun  
> >a small, thin, sharp piece of wood, bone, or the like, split or broken off from the main body.  
> verb (used with object)  
> >to split or break into splinters.  
> >to break off (something) in splinters.

**DAY 30: SPLINTER**

Azem knew the end was coming well before it happened.

When he had fled the ruins of Amaurot, after seeing what Zodiark’s summoning had done to the others, he had hoped for another way. Had prayed, desperately, that he could find the Sound and destroy it, end the manufactured god’s duty and thus free the people he loved. Had fought tirelessly, treading paths to and fro, across the length and breadth of their star.

When life returned to it, first all at once and then slowly from there, he had known another sacrifice to have taken place, and it burnt at him. But still he tried, still he fought. Word reached him eventually, through a messenger sent by Venat, of a third planned sacrifice, of their own planned summoning.

He ignored it then, and he ignored every message after that.

No, he had thought. No. He would not let either of those two things come to pass. He could not. It made him sick. On the one side there stood his former compeers, twisted and empty shells beholden to the god they had created-- planning to trade all the new life that had been born after the Final Days was ended for those lives which the tragedy took. A noble goal, a noble cause, of course it was: what Azem would not give for all those lives back. But to throw away all these new ones in exchange? No. Blind lunacy, it was, a desire for the salvation of their people turned to madness. He couldn’t allow it.

But neither could he allow Venat to call yet another artificial deity, another concept too big and too vast for their star to hold. One had been enough, one had been disastrous enough, how could they possibly think another would help? How could they possibly think another would solve the problem? How could they think it would not go wrong in exactly the same way? No, he couldn’t allow that, either.

But he didn’t know what to do instead. All he could do was hunt for the Sound, help survivors rebuild, do everything in his limited power as Azem to protect the new world and new lives his brother’s sacrifice had allowed to exist. This is what his brother would have wanted, this is what the Convocation would have wanted. They were the stewards of this star! They were meant to protect what life was here, what life had survived and been born anew, that was why they had called for Zodiark in the first place! And yet now they were bound to a god that could only look to the past, to what had existed before and could not again, not as it was. Now they could only grasp mindlessly for those who were gone, that which was no longer there, unseeing of what they had now to care for and guide as they always did.

So...he continued, as a Convocation of one, praying, hoping, believing with all his might that he could fix everything on his own, guide and protect this star on his own, and prevent any more foolish disasters from coming to pass.

But in the end, he failed.

In the end he failed, and he felt the weight of that failure crush him as he stood alone on a cliff overlooking Amaurot once again-- overlooking the world below, the sky above, roiling as Darkness and Light clashed, two manmade gods screaming for dominance, battling it out in a fierce clash that he knew was going to end badly for everyone, for their entire star.

And in the face of it, he had to admit that he’d known this would happen for a long time. He’d known, and he’d tried, and he’d failed all the same because he was never going to succeed in the first place. He was doomed, they all were, because they had loved their people too much. Because his friends and family, his loved ones, had given themselves for a cause they had thought right and true -- that had _been_ right and true -- and lost themselves into madness in the doing. Because everyone had wanted nothing more than salvation, than hope...they were doomed to this end. This despair.

And so it was in despair that Azem sank to his knees, watching helplessly as Light and Darkness clashed one last, final time, one great and powerful blow-- and the world shattered. Reality itself splintered apart, shattering with the force of it, and the whole of their star was caught up in the wake, tearing apart and taking everything with it.

He knew, for a moment, he could hold himself together. He could remain whole even as his body burnt away, call the fragments back together with his magic and fight and struggle all over again in whatever would be left once the dust settled. He could continue his fight, his solo journey as Azem, as the final convocant, guiding and protecting whatever life was left in the end of this.

He could. But he didn’t.

He had failed them all, in the end. Failed his brother, failed Hades, failed the other Convocants and failed every life upon their star. He had failed utterly, and now this was the price they paid. So...let the new lives, let the shattered beings, live without any of them. They would all shatter with their star, and there would be no one left on either side, just pieces of them scattered about a sundered world.

There was no longer a need for a convocation. No longer a need for any of those who had failed in their roles so completely. Not even him.

So Azem closed his eyes and let himself split apart with their star, shattering along with it, with one final prayer: 

_Let this new world, the people in it, learn from their mistakes. Let them all be better than we were, in the end. And let Hades, let Artemis, let them all find peace in this world as I hope I will. That’s all I ask._

_That’s all I ask._


End file.
